The Maiden: A Cinderella Story
by fanpersonthingy
Summary: In a old warn down Victorian house on the wall,a painting once hung. It was the portrait of the small, once happy family that lived in the house, when it was grand.That happy little family would be taken down off the wall and replaced,with misery and pain
1. Prologue

In a old warn down Victorian house – the last of its kind- on the wall, above the grand hearth, in the main sitting room, a painting once hung. It was the portrait of the small, once happy family that lived in the house, when it was grand.

The man of the house stood proudly beside his wife with his chest held forward and a content smile on his face. He was a tall man, with short black hair and a mustache equally as dark. Any one who looked at the painting could see that he was a proud man. He wore his finery, with the knowledge that it showed the others how important he was.

Opposite this man in every way, was his lovely wife. Where he was tall and dark, she was small and fair. Her hair was such a light blonde that it was almost white. She sat beside her husband with the prim posture of an aristocratic lady. If her demeanor hadn't reflected the families, higher social status, then her luxurious wardrobe would. The clip that held her hair back into a respectable bun was studded with diamonds, and her pale blue dress was both elegant and extravagant. Her eyes were a stunning blue that twinkled merrily. They were like twin oceans, which took away the breath of all who looked into them.

The real pride and joy of this picture, and this family, was the darling little girl who sat on her mother's lap with an innocent smile that only the young could give. She was between one and two years of age and had received the best attributes from both parents. She had her father's dark black hair, and although it could be seen in this painting, his pride. From her mother she had gotten the stunning blue oceans and her small doll like features. Anyone looking at this painting could tell she would grow up to be a beautiful young woman.

The De Rocha family couldn't look happier if they tried, and anyone looking at this painting would think that they would live happily ever after in the comfy life of luxury. Anyone would be wrong; not more than three years after the family was forever imprinted in the paint – the little girl scarcely five – tragedy struck the happy little family. They're lives were shattered, and no one, not one of them, would ever be the same. That happy little family would be taken down off the wall and replaced, with misery and painful memories.


	2. Chapter one

Madeline De Rocha was cleaning her house – as she always did- when she found the painting. It was in the farthest, darkest, and least used corner of the attic, behind huge box.

She pulled it out from its hiding spot, coughing as the room filled with years of dust. She had to brush off the rest of the dust coating to see what was on the painting, when the picture became clear she dropped the heavy canvas when she saw two long forgotten faces, and a third familiar face looking up at her. She took a look behind her hoping that her father wouldn't come to see what the noise was, and then laughed remembering that her father wouldn't come to see anything she was doing.

Her own two year old self was captured in paint with a skilled likeness. She stroked the fine brush strokes and decided that who ever had done the painting must have been a master of his art.

The man looked so happy, and kind that Madeline couldn't believe that it was her father, but the likeness was there. It was a younger Pierre De Rocha who was not yet encumbered by the pain of the world. It was the father Madeline had forgotten she had ever had, and longed to get back.

One look at her mother's loving face brought tears to Madeline's eyes. She moved her hand so her fingers were tracing the outline of the woman's figure as if by touching each brush stroke she would bring this wonderful vision, her mother happy and health, to her. Something Madeline wished for dearly. It was the only thing she wished for more than for her father to love her. The last, and really the only memories Madeline had of her mother were of a pale sickly women. A mere shadow of the women she once was. Madeline stared at her humble beauty. She longed for her slender arms around her own body. Madeline could hear her voice singing her lullaby softly, even thought it's been almost five years since she last heard it.

"Oh, Mama," She spoke softly her voice heavy with sadness, "I miss you so much. I couldn't miss you more if I tried. I love you."

As much as Madeline wanted it to be different this painting was just a memory. A memory of when the days were happy and simple. A memory of when her Mama was with her and her Papa loved her. It may have just been a memory but it was a memory she was going to hold on to, and it was, in the end, the memory that would save her.

"Madeline, quit lolling about!" He father suddenly yelled up the stairs, "I'm hungry!"

Madeline quickly stuffed the painting back where she had found it, "Yes, Papa, sorry, Papa."

She straightened her shoulders and whipped the remaining tears from her eyes. Her father wouldn't see her break. She then went to do what she was made to do, her work.

* * *

The day Madeline De Rocha lost her mother to god; she lost her father to the drink.

The pain of losing his wife laid heavy on Pierre's heart, and instead of trying to push through it for his daughter, he decided to forget about it. From the first moment Pierre De Rocha put the brandy bottle to his mouth he was lost to Madeline. He stopped being the loving, caring father she had known and turned into monster.

At first Pierre just ignored his daughter. He wouldn't admit it – Pierre was to proud a man to admit weakness – but he couldn't look into his daughter's eyes. For when he looked into little Madeline's beautiful blue orbs, he saw his wife's fair face. So Pierre just ignored his once darling little girl and went deeper into the drink.

That was how it started but it didn't stay that way. Pierre's business started to slack. He stopped going in, the money flow started falling greatly; whatever money Pierre _was_ making he would spend on more alcohol so he could drink his problems away.

But the drink caused its own problems. With no money to pay the servants – the maids, cooks, and butler - Pierre had to let them go. Now Pierre had another problem. He had no money to get new servants, but Pierre was raised in luxury his whole life _he _couldn't do these jobs. His liquor infected mind had a way to solve that. Pierre's paternal instincts left him long ago, and Madeline, seemed like a perfect replacement for all his missing men and women.

That was how, in a short time, Madeline De Rocha went from being a happy little girl with a whole family, to being a modern Cinderella with no prince charming in sight. She – being her fathers daughter – didn't want saving anyways. If she was going to get free, Madeline wanted to do the freeing herself.

It would be more than five years after Madeline found the painting before she started taking those baby steps to being free.

* * *

The memory of how things use to be, and – she hoped – how they could be again, were the only things that kept Madeline from becoming bitter and mean. Looking at the painting reminded her of how her father use to be and she would keep him that way in her heart forever. She would sneak away from her servant duties any chance she got to go gaze at the family she lost.

That, however, didn't keep Madeline from wanting things; things like being free of her gloomy old home.

After the servants left, the house was the next thing to go. On the outside they – Madeline under her father's orders – had managed to keep some of the house's former glory but the inside was a ruin. The house was gloomy, with no money for fuel for the lamps, the only light came from candle sticks the Madeline's father gave her in low supply. The walls had begun to peel away, the carpets warn through with years of walking on and the furniture in need of new upholstering.

On one particular sunny day, the need to get out of the house became too much; Madeline needed to go outside.

On _that _day the carnival had come to town. From her bedroom window Madeline could see into the square where the carnival was being held. Madeline had never been to the carnival and the want, no _need, _to go was too much. She could see the bright colours and the gay music drifted up to her through her open window. She was tired of staying indoors. Madeline wasn't going to miss the fun this time. She was going to the Carnival, even if it killed her.

She tip-toed quietly down to the main sitting room where her father was – as she knew he would be – passed out on the couch.

Madeline smiled; for once she was actually happy about this. As long as her father stayed unconscious he would never know she left the house.

She quietly, but quickly went back up to her room. She stopped in front of her mirror. It like everything else in the house showed signs of past glory, but was now nothing more than tarnished metal.

Madeline looked at her reflection. Her dressed was worn and frayed. She looked in her closet and realized that none of the clothes in there were in better shape. There was only one place in the house where the clothes were still in their original state.

Madeline stared at her mother's lovely dresses too afraid to take one. She knew her father would be outraged to see her in her mother's clothes. He would be more than outraged, he would be murderous. As she flipped through the wardrobe her eyes fell on a deep red cloak. Madeline slowly lifted it out of wardrobe and put it on her shoulders. The material was silky smooth. Madeline slowly pulled the hood up over top of her hair. She would risk wearing the cloak. If all went well, her father wouldn't even know she or the cloak was gone.

* * *

Philip Anderson looked around at the stalls of food and games, the stilt walkers and jugglers with a bored disinterest. Sure it sounded exciting but he'd seen it all before, hundreds, and hundreds of times before.

Philip wanted to do something new and exciting. Going on adventures and seeing the world interesting Philip, not jugglers and these silly girls who flocked around him a like sheep to the shepherd.

Sure the girls were pretty, some were even gorgeous, but all they ever talked about was clothes, or hair, or something equally as trivial. Philip wanted a girl with a head on her shoulders; someone who could keep up an interesting if not educated conversation and of course values a sense of adventure.

"Philip," his best friend Samuel Waters would always say, "Why must you always ignore what is right in front of you? You have all you'll ever need; why do you turn all of that away?"

Sam – like Philip – was also a son of a wealthy courts man. _Unlike_ Phillip he was happy with the luxury life had given him. He'd never in his life long to be somewhere other than his home and pretty girls, who just talk about dresses were fine to him.

It had been a mystery to all that knew them how two people so different had become such close friends.

At the moment Sam had gone off with one of those pretty girls – most likely to win her a prize at the game booth – leaving Philip to wander on his own.

He stopped and watched one of the jesters, playfully mock the king for a few moments, before getting bored and walking off again.

Philip was about to leave the carnival all together when he saw someone in a red cloak arguing with a vender. Intrigued Philip walked closer.

"Now, now," The cloaked person said, "I'm sure your pastries aren't the best in the world."

"But they are, I swear to the queen," the vender said vehemently.

The person nodded slowly, "I'm sure they are quite tasty, but you know it takes a lot to be _the best in the world_. That is just a pretty big title."

"Yes, but it is a big title that my pastries can fill," the vender said with a note of pride, "I'm sure if you tried one you would see for yourself."

"Hmm, I'm sure I could," the person nodded slowly, "Sadly I have no money to give… would you give me one free of charge, just one the basis of figuring out if yours are the best."

Philip laughed. He saw where this was going and found it amazingly smart.

The vender became cross, "Now look-y here, missy, you either pay for these here delicacies or you go some where else."

"Tut, tut," The person said with a small shake of their head, "I guess you were wrong about those pastries. If they were really the best in the world you would give me one, but now I know you were just lying to me."

The person started to walking away but the vender stopped them, "Alright, little missy take a pastry."

"Any pastry?" the person asked

The vender nodded in defeat, "Any pastry."

The person grabbed the largest one of the stand, "Mm, very tasty, thank you. Just might be the best in the world."

With that the person in the red cloak started to walk off. Philip had a sudden urge to talk to that person. He ran to catch up with them.

"Hey," he said when he was close to the person, "That was pretty smart, what you did back there."

The person turned around, as they did so a gust of wind pushed the loose hood off there head. The girl smiled at him, "Thank you."

Philip was momentarily stunned. It was a girl. He hadn't been expecting a girl. Of course, why couldn't they have been a girl, he thought. As he thought back he realized the vender had called her 'missy' a couple of times.

He smiled. She was beautiful, with long black hair that hung loose and free around her face, instead of up in a proper bun or what not like most girls. Her eyes were a stunning blue, which held Philip captivated. She was slight, with doll like features, and smaller than most.

When he looked down, he noticed the dress under the cloak was frayed and faded. He thought this was odd, but didn't bother to comment on it.

"Hello," He said sticking out his hand, "I'm Philip Anderson."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Philip," She used his first name; most girls would find that too forward, "Would you like some pastry. I may have gotten a little greedy and took more than I could finish."

Philip laughed and took a piece of the pastry. He was far too amused by this girl's antics to remember to her for her name.

"Isn't this a lovely carnival, Philip?" She asked walking around looking around at all the booths. She stopped to watch a jester and started to giggle.

He shrugged, "I guess. The problem is I've been to too many. If you've been to one, you've been to them all it seems."

"Really, I've never been to a carnival before in my life," she smiled as she finished off the pastry.

Philip stopped walking and looked at her, "Never?!"

"Never," She said shaking her head, getting a sad look in her eyes, "My father… he doesn't like them."

"Then how…" Philip started to ask her how she was here now, but she got to the punch before him.

She gave him a mischievous smile, "I could see the carnival out my window, and I wasn't going to miss the fun again. So, I snuck out."

Philip smiled with her. It would have been exactly what he would have done.

"Come on, let's go play a game," he had a sudden urge to win her a prize.

They went to a booth where there was a simple game of throwing a ball through a hoop. Philip won this game easily.

"Can I have the ball?" She asked when the vender asked her what prize she wanted. The request made Philip laugh, but after some pleading on her behalf the vender gave her the ball.

"Why on earth did you want that?" Philip had to ask. He had to know what she was thinking. She was just so different it intrigued him.

She smiled and shrugged, "I don't know, I just did."

Philip laughed again, and as the walked through the colourful booths and people the talked. They talked about all kinds of things; they talked about everything it seems, everything but her.

Philip realized with a start that he didn't even know her name, "We have been talking all this time and I don't even know what to call you. What, pry tell is your na-"

She suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled them both behind the nearest booth.

"What-" Philip started to ask but she shh'd him.

She looked out the side of the booth, "My dad's here."

Philip didn't really see the problem with that. Sure she wasn't supposed to be here, but her father will forgive her, won't he?

She stuck her head out the side of the booth again, and Philip heard the yell.

"**MADELINE**!!!"

"He was supposed to be unconscious," She said making Philip confused, "Oooh, he's going to kill me."

'he won't kill you," Philip said trying to comfort her since she was really upset, and when the second yell came he wasn't so sure that he wouldn't.

"Oooh, you don't know my father," She said with a shiver.

"**MADELINE!!! Come out here now!" **

She got up, then looked down at the cloak and looked like she would faint, "Oooh, he can't see me in this, no, no, no, nooo! Please, you take it. I'm sorry."

She dropped the cloak down to Philip, who was still on the ground and then ran out. Philip stuck his head out from the side of the booth and watched as she walked towards the tall man in the middle of the carnival.

"Ys Papa," She said in a low voice. Philip almost didn't hear her.

Philip watched as she reached her father. She some managed to look both scared and defiant at the same time. Then her father reached up one of his big hands and slapped her across the face. Her little head snapped back. The sound of skin hitting skin rung out through the area, and in Philips ears, long after the two left.


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: **Hey everyone, I highly doubt that any of you who may have actually read the first part of the story remember it, and for that I am really sorry. I remember writting this chatper ages ago, but some how it never got put up. Anyways, I'm just stopping in to say, that after this chapter, right now I am going to go and try and write all the rest or majority of the story out before I update again. So there may be a little break but I promise I will be coming back ASAP.

Just for some of you that may want it, a reveiw: A girl, Madeline has lived in the confindes of her old house with her drunken father since the death of her mother when she was about five. At the age of I believe 16, she sneaks out of the house to go to a carnival, where she meets Philippe a well off nobel from the town. The two feel a connection of sorts, before Madeline's father comes to bring her home, in a rage. As a punishment Madeline has been chained up in the house, and Philippe, who was determined to see her again, has come to the house and just found this out.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Who was she? Who was that wonderful, amazing girl – no woman – that appeared in Philippe's life with no warning and left just as suddenly? That was what Philippe was wondering as he sat alone, and dazed behind the booth holding a red traveling cloak, _her_ red traveling cloak.

"Madeline," he said letting the name roll off his tongue. How strange it was the joy he got just by saying her repeated it a few times realizing that that was just about _all_ he knew about her.

Everything had happened so fast he hadn't had time to process anything. Suddenly, everything had changed. One moment he had been wandering just another carnival, then he was having the most amazing time with the most amazing girl, and then yet again it changed with that bizarre meeting with her father.

Philippe winced as the image of her tiny little head snapping back as her father's hand went across it. How could anyone do that to a female, let alone their own daughter? It wasn't fair to use physical force on someone obviously physically weaker than you. You just didn't do things like that, at least Philippe didn't.

_Madeline, _how Philippe wanted to see her again; how Philippe _needed_ to see her again. How and where? Philippe didn't know.

"There you are! Where on earth have you been?" Sam came around the side of the booth and looked down at he friend, "I've been looking all over for you. I thought you left but then Miss Doyle said she saw you this way with a young lady. She sounded rather snubbed about it too."

He knew what Sam wanted. He wanted to know what was going on, what Philippe had been doing. Philippe knew what Sam wanted, but he didn't know how to tell Sam what had happened. Philippe didn't know what happened. He had no words wonderful, magnificent enough to explain Madeline.

Philippe had never been good with words anyways. He had been good with actions. When words failed him, actions always succeeded. So, Philippe just held out the long red cloak towards his friend.

Sam took the cloak and looked at it, "It's very beautiful, but I don't think red is your colour."

"You've been spending too much time with those maidens," Philippe said with a rogue smile, "It's not mine, you pansy. It's a _woman's _travel cloak."

"Oh, it is, is it, and pry tell, how did you come by it?" Sam asked pulling Philippe to his feet.

"She's just so wonderful," was Philippe's –useless – response.

The two boys started walking through the carnival grounds. The outburst from Madeline's father had shaken up the carnival goers for sure, but now most of the scandal was gone. Only a few clusters of real gossip-hounds were still whispering to each about it.

Sam, always the proper gentleman, always thinking about appearances nodded politely to people as they passed; Philippe was much too wrapped up in his own musings to remember his schoolings.

"- and resourceful, and beautiful. Sam, she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes on… Oh her eyes," Philippe continued not caring about whether he sounded foolish or crazy, "I have to see her again."

"Who, may I ask, do you have to see again?"

Philippe stopped suddenly, making Sam who had started to trail behind him, slam into his back, "I don't know."

"You don't know! What do you mean you don't know?" Sam asked incredulously. He would never understand the way of his… less refined friend, "Are you saying you spent your whole afternoon with some maiden and do not know her name?"

"Of course I know her name, but really what else do I know? I know nothing…I do not know _her_. I have no way of finding her again! No last name, no address. Nothing, that's what I have. I'll spend the rest of my days alone wondering what she's doing, if she's thinking of me, and if or when I'll ever see her again," Philippe ranted in slight desperation.

Sam looked at his friend, "When did you get so dramatic, you pansy. You sound like a maiden not like a gent going after one. You know her name; how hard can it be to find one girl?"

"I only know her first name, mon ami," Philippe sighed dramatically, "How many Madeline's there must be in a town such as this?"

"Wait, we aren't talking about the maiden who was very forcefully and loudly removed from this carnival moments ago, are we?"

"Do you know her? Who is she?" Philippe jumped at his friend. He saw an opening. He hoped for an opening. Any word of that beautiful wonderful girl would be magnificent.

"The whole carnival knows who she is now," Sam said ruefully, taunting his friend. He was enjoying himself very much, "but as for _who_ she is… now I don't know for sure… of course she could have been anyone… like you said, how many Madeline's there must be here in town… _but_ I do have a… theory… an educated guess, so to speak."

Philippe had to physically bite his tongue to keep himself from rushing his friend.

"I believe you may just had a run in with the ever illusive, oh so mysterious De Rocha daughter," Sam said thoughtfully.

Philippe looked blank, confused, awed, and then confused again, "Who are the De Rocha's?"

"Who are the De Rocha's?" Sam mimicked in disgust, "Don't you know anything about your town? Don't you listen to any of the gossip?"

"No, I don't because I don't sit around at quilting bees all day," Philippe teased his friend than added with a snort, "who's being the pansy now?"

Sam glared back at him, "I just take pride in where I'm from."

"I know, I know, please, if it is her I have to know," Philippe said taking the situation seriously once again.

Sam paused, prolonging his friends agony, "Okay, but only because I can't stand seeing a grown man disgrace himself so.

"Pierre De Rocha was a hugely influential businessman. In his youth he started in his fathers business. When the old man croaked he inherited all the money and the business. He was on top of the business world. The De Rocha's were metaphorically speaking, royalty, business royalty.

"He married; a well respected girl from a well respected family; she was as high in status as he was. All that, is said, not to matter to De Rocha. They say he loved her so much that he would have married her if she had been a beggar living on the streets. I personally don't believe that a person of De Rocha's stature – in love or not – would have actually sunk _that_ low, but that is how the story goes.

"De Rocha was living the good life; it couldn't get better for him. He was so high on life that he didn't even care that his only child, only heir was a girl. He lived in his happy bubble with his happy family not expecting a thing. Nothing, as far as De Rocha was concerned, I'm sure, bad could happen.

"About twelve years ago, Madame De Rocha died of an illness. They say she was sick along time. It was an awful way to go, and it just about killed De Rocha too, to watch her suffer. Once the Misses was gone to the hands of god, De Rocha found a new love; a love in the drink. The business, obviously, slipped and only survives now because a few loyal workers – people who had worked for De Rocha's Pop – picked up the slack. Now you'll likely as not find De Rocha in a bar or rolling drunk on the street.

"They know what happened to De Rocha, but as for his little girl, she hasn't been seen since the day they buried her Ma. Some extremist's say that De Rocha went mad and killed the girl… sneaking out late at night to bury the body in the back yard. The more plausible answer, the one I put my stalk in, however is,"

Sam grabbed his friend's shoulders and turned him to face an old manor towering about the park. The house showed signs of once being quite the show place but now the paint was peeling and some of the wood was rotting away, "that she never left. Whether by choice or by command, Madeline De Rocha has never left the house. She grew-up in the family home; spent 12 years never leaving," Sam walked around to stand in front of Philippe, "that is never leaving until now."

Philippe looked at the old depleted house. It was so bleak and cold looking he had a hard time picturing the colourful, full of life girl he'd just met trapped in it, and yet it seemed to fit.

As the story sunk in, things as Madeline had told him began to click and make sense. The old house looked over the park; in fact, the upper-windows appeared to give a perfect direct view of the carnival, the carnival that she'd never been to before, and the ball that she had wanted as a prize; none of it had made sense to Philippe at the time but now with the tale – possible just town gossip – fresh in his mind they seemed like reasonable things for a girl who grew up in the confines of an old crumbling house to want and think.

Despite the gloomy tone of Sam's story, Madeline's story, the corners of Philippe's lips started to propel upwards.

He held the cloak to his chest and smiled stupidly, "It's really her, isn't it?"

He had a name; he had an address. She wasn't gone forever – she wasn't.

But what was her father doing to her now?

Madeline stumbled along after her father; he grasped the collar of her dressed and dragged her behind him. She could barely get her footing let alone keep up with her father's long angry strides.

She was terrified. Fear and pain were building up inside her but she wouldn't show it; she wouldn't cry. Her father didn't deserve – and wouldn't get – the satisfaction.

"I'm sorry," Madeline trembled. She had tried apologizing several times; all seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Her father had worked himself into an violent drunken rage. The booze was easy to smell on him and Madeline could tell that he was beyond all reason now.

He had never been made like this before– Madeline had never given him a reason to be mad before. She had always done what was asked of her; ever since her mother died Madeline did everything her father asked. She was the perfect daughter hoping that that could bring her loving father back.

Her face stung from his hit; she had never tested his temper before and now she sorely wished she had left it that way.

She couldn't hold in her gasps of pain as her legs smashed against each and every step on the way up to her room.

Her voice quivered with every breath; it was taking all her energy to hold the majority of her fear inside. She felt as if she could break down right that second. She had never known such fear. All her life, no matter what her father did, Madeline had managed to convince herself that deep down, somewhere, Pierre De Rocha still loved her. Now, now, however she wasn't sure. Now, however, she found her self thinking that that love might be too far down to save her from this drunken rage. The drunken rage she had no idea the full extent of.

Her father shoved Madeline into her room, letting her sprawl across the floor. The shove had been too sudden and the momentum too great that Madeline hadn't had time to use her hands to break it. She landed hard on her hip and gasped as something was shoved painfully into her side.

_What the… _Madeline wondered slowly moving her hand towards her pocket. Whatever had hurt her had to have been in her pocket because her floor was always spotless; she had no toys or activities to create clutter with.

Her small, slight hand closed around a smooth sphere object that had hidden it's self in the folds of her dress. It was the ball; the one from the vender; the one Philippe had won for her.

Philippe, the memory of his kind smiling face brought calm over Madeline. He had been the first person near her own age Madeline had talked to in many, many years. She'd like to think he was her first friend – possibly ever – but even with her limited – meaning no – social experience she was sure you had to spend more than a couple of hours together to be friends. Still, the memory of Philippe and her first carnival calmed Madeline; it slowed her furiously beating heart; it restored her shaking breath. As she laid there with her father raging about her she managed to escape – mentally at least.

Of course, the bizarre calm could only last so long.

"My one wish," Pierre De Rocha was yelling, "All I ever asked of you was to stay in this god damn house!"

Suddenly he pounced on his daughter again.

Madeline's mind was ripped blank as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and proceeded to drag her towards the bed.

Through the blinding pain Madeline managed to hear her father's words, "I gave you a chance. I let you stay by your own free will, but since you can't do that we'll have to try another way. What kind of father would I be if I didn't punish my daughter for misbehaving?"

Madeline was terrified – and in pain – once more. She had no idea what her father was doing he could hardly think at all through the fear and pain.

"…Father, pl-please I'm-I'm so-so-sor-sorry," her voice shook and quivered.

"You should have thought of the consequences before you went to the little fair," he growled back.

'What-what are you doing?" Madeline asked as her father reached into his back pocket and produced a strong rope.

"If you won't stay because I asked," Pierre told the young girl – _his _little girl – as he tied both her hands together with one end of the rope and tied the other end to the bed post, "than I'll have to _make_ you stay here."

He turned and walked towards the door after he was certain the Madeline wouldn't be getting through the binding, "I hope you enjoyed that carnival because it will be the last – of anything – you'll be doing outside of this house for a long, long time."

Madeline's heart was racing up in her throat. She was petrified and confused. Her father couldn't just leave her like this. He couldn't just leave her in her room for the rest of her life. Someone would… no one would do anything; no one would know anything's wrong because no one knew she was there.

"What-what about my chores?" Madeline called out in desperation as her father was about to leave, "I-I can't do-o them tied up here... how will-will they get done? You won- shouldn't have to do them."

Her father stopped and turned; the smile that played across his lips could only be described as sinister, "Don't you worry about that."

Then he went, leaving his only child alone and afraid.

"Philippe, this isn't a good idea," Sam said wirily as the two boys walked through the crowded streets towards there destination – The De Rocha house.

It had been two weeks since the carnival and Philippe had thought of nothing else but the raven hair beauty that changed his life that day.

The memory of Madeline had tormented him everyday. He was physically affected by his desire to see her again; so much so that his mother had started to worry; she was going to call for the physician if Philippe didn't shape up soon.

"Sam, I have to see her again. I _have _to know if she's alright… I have to know if she was real or just a figment of my imagination," Philippe replied never slowing his determined stride; he was going to see her no matter was Sam or anyone else did.

Why Sam had decided to accompany him in the first place was a mystery to Philippe. All he did was complain; it was slowly staring to dawn on him that Sam's goal in coming with Philippe was to stop him from going.

"You have the cloak. She was real; I doubt your imagination can conjure things into reality now," Sam said.

Philippe held the read cloth in front of him, "That's exactly why I need to go; she deserves to have her possessions returned."

Sam rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up with Philippe, "Phil, really? We both know the reason you have the thing in the first place is because she _doesn't want _it back. That is just an excuse on your part."

They were nearing the house; Philippe could see it now. He was so close. There was just one thing standing in his way, and he was going to find out why it was.

"Sam why are you so against me talking to this girl? You aren't jelous are you? Because you know you'll always be number one in here," Philippe teasingly patted his heart.

"No, I'm not jelous," Sam's voice was flat and unimpressed, "but you saw what that old drunk did to his own daughter. What do you think he'll do to the love-struck fool who tries to get in his way? They're the De Rocha's; no one messes with them. We just let them do what they are going to do."

, "Well, maybe that's the problem with this town," Philippe said, "Maybe we should start meddling when it is obvious some meddling is needed."

Sam watched his friend walk towards his house, "You know you'll only make it worse for her if you get caught by the old man!"

Philippe turned around with his adventurous smile firmly in place, "than I just won't get caught."

"That fool is going to get himself killed one of these days," Sam muttered with a resigned head shake.

The house looked worse up close. From a distance the majority of the damage was hidden from the eye but when it was right in your face you could see everything, all the cracks and dents in the façade. The whole building needed repainting, replacing, and repair.

On the door there was a tarnished gold knocker that looked like had once been a lion. Slowly, working up his nerve – pushing back all of Sam's warnings – he grabbed the handle and knocked. He waited, and waited, and waited some more; nothing happened. No one came. He was about to knock again when slowly, almost hesitantly, the door knob turned and, even more slowly, the door opened about a third of the way.

"Umm, hello?" Philippe called into the dimly lit home. The door was open but who ever had done that hadn't shown themselves.

"Philippe?" Madeline's soft surprised voice came out the door before her head appeared from behind it, "What are you- how did you- … here?"

"I thought you might want this back at some point," Philippe replied simply, holding out the cloak.

It appeared that the sight of the cloak or the sound of Philippe's voice, or perhaps a combination of the two snapped Madeline out of her surprised and she became jumpy and worried.

She looked over her shoulder before quickly snagging the cloak out of his hands, "You really can't be here."

"Wait," Philippe said holding out his hand to stop her from closing the door, "I wasn't done yet… I wanted to ask if you were ok… after you know your dad."

"Fine, perfectly, fine, and I would be much better if you left," she said her words becoming jumbled and rushed.

She kept looking over her should as if she was waiting for something to jump out at her.

"I don't think you look alright to me; I think you look pretty scared," Philippe noted.

"_Please_ just go Philippe. You can't do anything for me," Madeline sounded desperate.

He was about to do what she had asked when she turned her head and the light caught on the deep purple bruise on her cheek. With out thinking Philippe reached out to touch it making Madeline jump back. A loud clanging, metal hitting metal sound, was emitted from behind the door as she did so.

"What was that?" Philippe asked not taking 'no' for an answer anymore. He pushed the door open fully so he could see, and was horrified by the result.

There was a metal chain locked around Madeline's ankle and hooked on to a long metal pole running along the bottom of every wall in the house.

* * *

**A/N**: So that was the chapte; I hope you enjoyed it. I would love it you Reveiw, because I love hearing what you think. Please constructive critsism is welcome and actually encouraged/perfered. Again, there may be a slight lull, but only because I am trying to get the story all finished off, so then I can start updating with more consistance. So, I promise that I will be back, after hopefully not too long with the rest of your story.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: **As Promised I'm back :) And I would like to propose/promise that I will try to update once everyweek. So please, feel free to come and yell at me if I fail in this promise. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"Philippe, please," Madeline swept the chain back to allow herself room to move – her voice was a call of desperation, "Just go there's nothing you can do – just go before –"

The boy stood in the doorway refusing to move, or allow Madeline to close the door.

"Madeline, why do you…" he stared in horrified silence at the metal trapping the girl to the house, "How could –"

Madeline looked over her shoulder. Her father had been well into his drinking that morning, but she was sure that he wasn't so far gone that all this commotion wouldn't attract his attention.

She didn't need anymore trouble.

Pleading with her eyes she turned back to the handsome young man with the long brown hair, "Philippe, please just go, there's nothing you could – my father—"

"Did he do this to you?" both his voice and expression darkened.

Madeline's worry subsided for a moment, long enough for her to roll her eyes and ask, "Who else?" in a bitter and sarcastic tone.

The days of forced confinement had been slowly pushing down on the girl's naturally optimistic disposition; she now often found herself struggling to find a positive outlook.

"This is wrong! He can't do this!"

`Madeline shook her head at his naivety. Philippe may have been given the best education money could buy, but when it came to the real world he knew nothing.

The world didn't run on right and wrong; it ran on money and influence.

Madeline had none, so everyone would and will just turn the eyes away.

"He can and he did," Madeline informed him tiredly. Her voice soft and sad she continued, "There's nothing you can do for me; really I'm _fine _so would you _please _just—"

Her voice slowly died off as she heard a door open and close down the hall; heavy stumbling footsteps followed.

Panic started bubbling from her stomach; panic not only for herself but for Philippe. If her father found him here, things would not only be bad for her, but for him as well.

"Philippe! Please!" her voice squeaked with fear making it loose the authoritative tone she had been going for," I must ask you- really this is for your own—"

Again she tried to close the door and again he stopped her.

"Madeline, I really must protest."

With a strangled cry of frustration born from her father's drunken footsteps baring down on them she placed both her hands on his shoulders and shoved.

With a look of surprise he stumbled back off the doorstep and onto the sagging porch.

"I'm sorry Philippe but really this is for your own good," her voice had taken on a dark determined tone; one that was close enough to angry that she felt sure she would push him away, "there is nothing you can do for me - There's nothing anyone can do; You being here will not only hurt me more, but hurt you too, so _please _just go."

With that she slammed the door in his shocked frozen face.

Sagging against the door she only had a few moments of relief before her father was upon her.

"What was that?" his words were clipped and suspicious.

"Nothing, Papa, merely a sale's man – trying to sell me some new fangily cleaning thing." Her tone was suddenly soft and complacent.

"Took a long time."

"Well, you now how sale's people can be – wouldn't take no for an answer."

There was a tense pause and Madeline stared to nervously rub her arm.

Would her father believer her? He had to. What other proof did he have?

"I'm hungry." He nodded at her before turning back to the sitting room.

Relief at being believed rushed through her. It was so great that she forgot her usual frustration at being ordered about so ungracefully.

She merely curtsied at her father's retreating form, "Coming right up, Papa."

* * *

Philippe blinked at the door,

She had pushed him!

He didn't think he had ever been pushed in his life, and defiantly not by a girl.

Children when he had been growing up had always been too scared of his family name to do much more than sneer at him.

Certainly never push him!

He walked down the porch in a daze. He was sure that there was something more important he should be dwelling on but he couldn't get past that last act. It was as if his stumble had somehow jumbled up his brain.

"Philippe!"

He turned towards the voice and was surprised to see his friend there; he had forgotten all about Sam.

"Sam…" the word came out almost as a question.

Looking concerned Sam approached his friend slowly, "Are you alright? What happened?"

"She-she," still in a daze Philippe fumbled for words, "She pushed me!"

Sam stared at his friend for a moment, his face blank and expressionless before breaking into a sudden fit of laughter.

Philippe glared at him, "It's not funny." His town was defensive and a little petulant.

"Come on you have to admit, it's a little funny," Sam argued when his laughing subsided enough to allow words.

Philippe continued to glare at him for a moment before cracking the tiniest of smiles, "Maybe just a little bit."

The two boys were quiet. Sam stared up at the large haunting building, while Philippe stared at him.

His brain was still fuzzy, and yet he could think of no reason for it to be. There was something big he was missing; something large and important that he somehow managed to miss place in the short time.

But what?

_Madeline_

"So," Sam's slow cautious voice finally broke the silence, "what did you do? I know you're a prick but to get shoved? By a girl?"

Philippe who did not appreciate teasing in his best moods, glared at him, "I was trying to… she didn't want me to…." Slowly a cold sickly feeling of horror slipped down his spine and settled in his stomach. He remembered what he had forgotten. "Her father chained her to the wall."

"Excuse me?" Sam chocked over the words, whirling his head around to stare at his friend in horrified wonder.

Philippe, however, missed this look because he was once again looking at the house.

"She had a chain, metal, around her ankle that was connected to this pole thing along the bottom of the wall – I guess so she could move around," his tone was soft, flat, and expressionless. It was detached as if he had nothing to do with any of this.

"Why that's just… barbaric," Sam was appalled; he had started out with a more realistic view of the De Rocha household than his friend had, but even this was too much for him to believe, "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean—?" Sam implored starting to sound both shocked and angry.

"I tried," Philippe cut him off and continued in his emotionless drone, "I tried to do… something, but she wouldn't let me; she said there was nothing I or anybody could do, and then she pushed me and closed the door."

The two boys feel into a somber silence.

Both being from well-off families, neither had ever faced anything like this nor truly believed such things happened.

For in their worlds it didn't.

Both were trying to grasp their new discovery in their own ways.

Sam, always the more rational-headed of the two broke the silence first.

"I guess… you know… she's right—there's really nothing we _can _do about it."

His town was soft, hesitant and downtrodden.

Philippe, however, was still incredulous.

He turned towards his friend with a savage expression, "_Excuse me!_" His voice echoed around them.

"Well…" Sam started hesitantly, suddenly unsure of his friend, "he _is_ her father; he has rights over her – no one else is even really sure she's still in there. He can do whatever he pleases and no one really has the power to stop him."

"And that makes it right!" Philippe implored. His voice still reverberated off everything in sight as each word seemed to come out louder than the next, "You said yourself it's barbaric!"

Sam looked down at his feet, ashamed but unwilling to back down, "No it's not right but…" he shrugged helplessly, "it's the way things are. What are we, or anyone else for that matter, to do?"

Philippe shook his head in disgust, "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you! I knew that you liked all your high snobbery and nobility, but I didn't think you would stoop this low!"

Sam flinched back as if slapped. Philippe's thoughtless word, born from anger, had hurt the other boy more than a slap could have.

"There's nothing we can do!" Sam's voice rose with exasperation. He had no idea how to make his friend see, "There's nothing anyone can do! It's just the way things are. You need to get your head out of the clouds and see that!"

"She's just an innocent girl!"

Philippe glared at Sam while he looked back with an equally determined stare.

They remained in a stalemate for seconds that felt more like decades as all the words that had been said, all the accusations that had been made, hung around them making the air feel heavy with the burden.

Without a warning, Philippe turned abruptly and started down the street.

Surprised, Sam yelled out with genuine curiosity, "Where are you going?"

"You're wrong, Philippe flung at him with more determination than Sam had ever remembered seeing him use before, "I am going to change this."

"Phil, you can't! This it just—"

"To hell with 'I can't'! You're wrong. I am going to stop him," he stopped and looked at the house; his voice dropped and softened becoming no more than a whisper, "I'm going to stop him; I'm going to change this."

* * *

**A/N: **So that was Chapter three. I hope you enjoyed, and please review; I really love to hear what you think. What you liked didn't like etc. Constructive critism is wanted :)


	5. Chapter Four

****

Chapter Four

Madeline unconsciously rolled her now free ankle as she gazed out her bedroom window.

Her bedroom had become her only free place, her safe haven. It was the only place her father would allow her to roam freely – for she was locked in.

Sighing she looked down at the ball in her hand; slowly she stared tossing it to and fro between her hands.

Madeline was surprised she had even managed to keep its existence away from her father. For surely, if her father had known about the ball, it too would be taken away from her.

She couldn't let that happen, so she kept it in the safest place she knew – with herself. Madeline never let the ball out of her sight. In the day time she carried it about in her apron pocket and in the evening, she slept with it under her pillow.

She was not going to let her father take it away from her for it was a symbol, a reminder. The small sphere was the only thing she had left from her days of freedom.

It reminded her of the outside world. It reminded her of the fresh air and laughing. It reminded her of her dreams, and a future without her father's oppression.

But most of all, it reminded her of Philippe.

_Philippe_

He had come back for her. No one had ever made an effort to come back before. Everyone that cared about her always left in one way or another. She had always been alone.

_Philippe_

Her mind trailed through her memories, flashing back to the carnival – her last happy memory. She could see Philippe his face alight with playful humor. His long mousy brown hair, the colour of rich creamy chocolate desert, was tied at the nape of his neck as was the mode of fashion for the young noble's of the day. His eyes, two round hazel almonds, twinkled with mischief as he laughed and teased her.

Madeline loved the way his eyes twinkled.

Her memory turned and changed. She flashed back to that morning, and the stunned look on his face when she had shoved him out of the doorway.

She let out a laugh despite herself; he had looked so lost. She wondered if anyone had ever dared to shove him before – judging by the look on his face, probably not.

Shaking her head in amusement, she watched a star streak across the sky.

When she had been little she used to sit up at night, gazing out her window, waiting and wishing on those stars.

For as long as she could remember, she would wait and wish, wait and wish, wait and wish.

She couldn't count the number of wishes she had made in her relatively short life. She could, however, count the number that had come true.

Zero.

She had wasted her childhood wishing and waiting, but she knew better now.

Madeline knew that a wish was nothing more than a desire that no one was listening to. She knew nothing was going to change.

It couldn't change.

There was nothing anyone could do about it.

Not even Philippe. No matter how much he may say or think he wanted to.

She rubbed her tired eyes, and looked into the darkly lit room.

Madeline was forbidden the use of a candle for her father wanted her to do nothing more than work and sleep.

The dark blob by the door seemed to have its own essence, calling and taunting her.

Although the lack of light didn't allow for details to be seen, Madeline knew that the dark blob, the only concrete shadow, besides the bed and mirror, was the chain her father used to keep her in the house.

Her ankle ached at the thought of another day of chaffing from its unrelenting metal grasp.

She was tired of being a prisoner in her own home, but felt powerless to stop it.

Her father held all the power, all the say. No one in town knew or cared she was here.

Except for Philippe… and Madeline knew that despite his high status, he, as one boy, would be unable to change anything.

It was useless.

A bubble of frustration started to grow and fester.

Restless, and angry, Madeline pulled herself up and away from the window and stomped over to the bundle of metal.

With a futile yell, she swung her leg back and kicked it.

The heavy chains did nothing more than clanged against each other.

Infuriated even more, she repeated this act until she had no more energy left; she sunk to the floor in defeat.

Head in her hands, Madeline gave an overwhelmed sigh.

She couldn't do this; she couldn't let her father's cruelty get to her. She couldn't let this one act destroy her as her father let the one act of her mother's death destroy him.

Madeline decided with a heavy heart that she didn't know how long this captivation would last, but she did know she was going to get through it with a smile.

She would look at the good things instead of the bad.

There was a whole world out there that she didn't know. Somewhere there had to be a place where father's treated their daughter's with love not malice.

One day, she would be free; one day she would see it.

For even if her father planned to keep her locked up for ever, he couldn't outlive her. He was an old unhealthy man.

With renewed strength, Madeline pulled herself off the ground and over to her bed.

She would be free one day, she could feel it.

She just had to wait for that day to come.

* * *

"Philippe, darling, is that you?" his mother's voice was fraught with panic as she came bustling as fast as her long skirts would allow into the main foyer of the large beautiful home.

Philippe had always loved his home; it was a point of pride that it was often said to be the nicest home in the whole village.

Now, as he looked around at the rich carpeting and gold in lay that was sprawled about his house so carelessly, as if it were nothing of importance, it only stood to remind him of how worn and tarnished Madeline De Rocha's home was; how different their lives were.

It disgusted him how frivolous his own family was, and how it took a look at real despair for him to realize it.

And Philippe knew that the De Rocha house wasn't even the worst of it. The worn out manor at least had the benefit of a dying grandeur to support itself. There were many homes, families, who lived far, far worse off.

Philippe was grimacing at an exquisite gilded mirror that he had never even noticed before this moment when his mother finally burst into the foyer.

"Philippe Anderson! Where have you been? Do you have any idea what hour it is?"

For a Countess, Lady Anderson truly knew how to yell when the time called for it.

Philippe honestly didn't have any idea what hour it was; ever since he had left the old manor, he had been wandering the streets trying to collect his thoughts.

He couldn't face his home, the society that they kept there, for as he walked away from his friend, Philippe had started to worry that Sam had been right – maybe nothing could be done for Madeline.

He had only even thought about coming home when he noticed the stars appearing in the sky.

No matter what ideals Philippe might have been trying to put forward, he was still a noblemen, a count's son, and he could no more spend the night out-of-doors than a fish could breathe out of water.

He may have been disgusted by his obsessive money, but he couldn't live without it – at least not completely.

Once a noble, always a noble.

That didn't mean, however, he was in any mood to put up with his mother – who was a vapid and vain woman on her good days—and her antics.

Sighing, Philippe removed his coat, and passed it to the servant hovering near by.

"Calm yourself mother," Philippe ordered in a disinterested, almost exasperated tone, "I was out."

"Out? _Out? _And you couldn't be bothered to tell anyone where out may be," the Countess Anderson was working herself into a fine set of hysterics.

His mother's theatrics continued to do nothing for Philippe; he had spent his whole life with them and he had learned at a young age that despite them, the Countess held very little power in her own household, and even less respect.

"Nancy saw me leave with Sam. Besides, I am a young man now; I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

The Countess huffed, "Don't you think that just because the world considered you the man of the house, that you can just do as you wish… if your father was here."

Since he wasn't that was exactly what it meant.

However, Philippe decided to humor his mother and at least act contrite; he was already tired of their conversation and just wished to be alone.

"You are right mother, I am sorry," he bowed his head slightly and went towards the grand staircase that opened out into the foyer and lead to his study and adjoining bedroom.

He was halfway up when a thought struck him.

He stopped suddenly and turned back towards his maternal parent.

"Mother," his tone was slow and cautious. It suggested that he was fishing around for something but the Countess was too naïve to pick up on it, "What do you know of the De Rocha family?"

Philippe figured if the knowledge of Mr. De Rocha's misfortunes was as commonly known as Sam had once suggested his mother, who was known for gossip, would surely know about it.

"De Rocha?" her tone held a level of disgust reserved for sewer rats and other equally unpleasant things. "What would you want with that drunk? A waste of space that one is."

Philippe nodded slowly; he couldn't agree more though, of course, his reasons differed from his mother's.

"Nothing, nothing at all." He pretended to continue his trek up stairs, but stopped again after only a few steps, "What of his daughter? What do you know about her?"

"His daughter?" True surprise coloured his mother's voice. "Why no one has seen or heard of her for years." The countess paused for a moment, and a gleeful smile, that could only come from sharing a particularly good piece of gossip spread across her face, "Though, I heard a rumor that she was at the carnival last week. _Quite _the scandal, Liddy said, the old drunk came yelling—"

Not needing to hear a recount of an event he had actually witnessed, Philippe tuned out the rest of his mother's speech.

He wasn't surprised the carnival story had made its way to his mother. He supposed, in the world of scandals, it had been a particularly good one, and as stated before, his mother was nothing if not up to date on all her scandals.

"What would you say if I said I met her?" Philippe, his tone almost taunting, threw his words at his mother, cutting her gossip off short, "If I said I was at the carnival that day, and I met her? If I told you that today when I was 'out' I was actually at her house? That I saw De Rocha?"

Shocked, the countess pulled in a breath, sucking in her cheeks, opened her mouth, and then closed it.

Philippe remarked to himself that she looked an awful lot like a fish.

"Oh, Philippe, you didn't." She said it in a way that suggested he had committed a felony not merely gone to someone's house.

Though to Countess Marie Anderson, going to a social pariah's home was equivalent to a felony.

"But I did mother. I went to see her, you know what?" he spat the words accusingly at his mother as if it was her fault, "he has her chained to the wall. _Chained to the wall._ She's trapped in that house; he won't let her out."

The anger that had been boiling in his chest all day finally came exploding out of his mouth.

She was silent for a long moment, and then with more warmth than Philippe had ever heard her express for a being other than herself she cooed, "That poor girl… I wouldn't put it past that man." She paused for a moment more. "That's too bad."

Philippe stood on the stairs waiting for her to say something more, waiting for her to volunteer some form of help, waiting for her to do something, but she didn't. She just continued to stare up at him with a solemn mix of concern and confusion.

This time Philippe felt the fury burn and scorch in his chest, and come flying out of his mouth like fire.

His words were spat out like venom, "'that's too bad'? '_That's too bad'? _That's all you have to say mother?_ That 'that's too bad'?_"

His mother, who had never seen her son in something more than a slightly disgruntled temperament, once again made the fish face, "What-what do you wish me to say dar-darling?"

"How about something better than 'that's too bad'? How about trying to do something instead of saying 'that's too bad'?"

"Honey, there's nothing I can do. Her father—"

Philippe's face contorted with rage as his mother mirrored Sam's words; he was tired of hearing people put this all off on others.

"How do you know? How do you know theirs nothing you can do when _you haven't even bothered trying_?" His mother tried to interrupt but Philippe cut her off with a disgusted shake of his head. "No, don't bother; I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

With one more disgusted look he turned his back on her and walked off to his room.

* * *

**A/N: **OK, so that's chapter four. I really hoped you enjoyed that. As always, feel free to review, in fact I'd encourage it, because I'll always take the oppourtinty to hear what you guys think, and make my writting better. So please, review - tell me what you liked, what you didn't, the works.


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N:** here's the next chapter. This is a long one, and personally one of my favourites so far. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Philippe bristled at the soft knocking on his door before he realized that his mother, despite the seniority his present age and gender should have given him, had never given him the respect of knocking; she always just charged in.

He turned away from this study desk towards the door.

"Yes?" he raised his voice to just below a yell so he was heard through the thick oak door.

A hearty cheery voice trumpeted through the door, "Poppet, open this door this instant."

Philippe smiled despite himself.

"It's open, come in."

The door knob turned, and Nancy, the head maid and nurse, opened the door, carrying a tray of food in front of her.

Without waiting for any further orders, she bustled over, and set the tray in front of Philippe.

"Now eat up, Poppet," she ordered, "We need to get some meat onto your bones."

Philippe looked at the food disdainfully, "I'm not hungry."

"Now, now Poppet, cheer up, all is not lost," Nancy smiled mysteriously at him, "These things always have a way of working themselves out."

Nancy, a hearty woman with an infectious smile, had been with his family for as long as Philippe could remember. She had raised him, as well as his sisters, single handedly; god forbid his mother try to do anything that may cause her difficulty.

She wasn't as old as his parents, but she was still quite a few years older than himself.

Conscious of her gaze, Philippe grudgingly started picking at the bread, "What things?"  
He glanced at her suspiciously; Nancy had a twinkle in her eye that told Philippe something mischievous was going through her brain.

She was honestly the most childish adult he had ever met in the best of ways. Nothing could get Nancy down; everything amused her.

"I have a bone to pick with you mister," Nancy artfully dodged the question, "What did you think yelling at your mother so; you know that her delicate demeanor can't take such things. You have put her in quite a state."

Philippe stare darkened. He tore off a piece of his bread violently with his teeth.

"Serves her right," he mumbled unintelligibly around the food.

Nancy, who had started to tidy the room, reach back over to Philippe and flicked his ear.

"Don't speak with you mouthful."

Swallowing the food, Philippe apologized bashfully, "but she did bring it on herself. She-she-she-"

Philippe's face flushed with anger as he struggled to put his rage into word. He still couldn't believe how callous all his acquaintances were being. Did no one else comprehend that she was just a girl, that she was an innocent girl, and didn't deserve any of this? For if they did no one was acting like it.

"Hush now Poppet; you and I both know that isn't true – you can't expect your mother to do something she's not capable of," Nancy put her hands on her hips and stared sternly down at the boy, "She's in her sitting room, all in a state, for she has no idea what she did wrong."

Rather than being cowed by Nancy's reprimand, Philippe stared sullenly back at her.

"But-but-but she…" he sputtered slamming his spoon down into his broth splashing it on the table.

Nancy clicked her tongue, "Poppet, hush, and eat your dinner. You and I both know that you hadn't or shouldn't have expected more of your mother than you got. She simply doesn't understand – I expect a full apology from you."

Philippe stuttered a few times more, feeling like a small child, but Nancy ended it with a quick glance.

"You don't have to do it right now, Poppet. You eat now – calm yourself. But before you leave tomorrow, for wherever you plan to go, I expect to hear that you made amends for your silly and childish behavior."

"Fine," Philippe mumbled into his soup.

He could never face up to Nancy's determined mothering tone. She always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, and exactly how to make him feel guilty for something he never thought he would.

"Good," she nodded like she does whenever she feels she has done a job well done and continued about with her cleaning.

Usually, Philippe would object to a servant going about his things unasked, while he was present, but Nancy wasn't a servant, not really.

She was the only person in the house that knew him well enough to have expected the rage he had exhibited earlier, and she was the only one who knew how to calm him down.

Despite himself, Philippe felt her reassuring, comforting voice, and the warm broth calm him down.

"I just don't get it," he said quietly, imploringly, "how could her father do something like that? To his own daughter? And how can nobody care?"

"Now Poppet, you're old enough to understand grief can do things to people," Nancy said sadly.

"I understand, but how could… and she's so kind, and honest. And beautiful…"

Nancy turned to look at him, some of her mischief back in her eyes, "Ah, Poppet… is this about the father or the daughter?"

Philippe felt a blush creep up his neck and face. He felt like Nancy could see right through him with just one gaze.

"Does it matter," he mumbled into his soup, "it's not like I'll be able to change anything if no one else in this town cares."

Nancy set the books she had been putting away, down on a table, and moved across the room to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be like that now, Poppet, you'll do the right thing."

Philippe looked up at her uncertainly, "You think so?"

"I know so," she said confidently, "otherwise, you wouldn't be my Poppet."

Philippe looked down at his soup smiling bashfully, "Thank you, Nancy."

"Don't mention it, dearie," she smiled and started to walk back towards the door. She stopped before opening it, "And Poppet?"

"Yes?" Philippe turned to look at her.

"That soup better be done when I come back."

* * *

Philippe left the house the next day after apologizing to his mother. Despite what he thought, he actually felt good about it.

Nancy had been right; he shouldn't have expected so much from his mother. Just to admit that it was an unfortunate travesty was a miracle in and of itself.

He felt confident as he walked down the street.

Sam had said he couldn't stop it, but he was going to prove his friend wrong.

With a determined gait he headed towards the local news office.

Philippe felt as if he had something they might want to hear.

* * *

Madeline woke with a start; her father was rapping and yelling at the door as he struggled with the locks.

With a groan, she pulled herself into a sitting position.

Her foot was sore and bruised from her fit the night before; the more she calmed down the more she regretted her actions.

There was an ominous click as the lock turned and a few seconds later the door was shoved open with surprising force.

"Get up."

As always, his words were clipped and short, as if his booze soaked brain couldn't come up with anything more.

It was hard to see the proud business man he had once been.

Madeline watched in disgust as he stumbled in and brought a bottle to his lips.

"I see you got yourself breakfast," Madeline said her words slowly and carefully hoping the acquisition would get to him, as well as dreading it.

He merely gave her a grunt, "Get ready."

Meekly, Madeline pulled herself out of bed and slipped into the small room that had once been a large closet but now served as a small washing/dressing room.

Madeline pulled her thin ragged dress on quickly and splashed some cold water from the basin on her face.

She was aware that her father was waiting out side, and was an impatient man.

With a quick, almost unconscious pat to her apron pocket she was getting ready to make her reappearance when she froze.

The pocket was empty. Frantically, she plunged her hand inside hoping that what she thought was wrong. That it was in there.

It held nothing. It was empty.

Her ball was gone.

Desperately she tried to figure out where it may be. She hoped, beyond hope that she had left it under her pillow upon her bed.

Her father would never dare to go there.

Flashes of the night before started seeping back into her panicked brain. She was sitting on the windowsill tossing it between her hands. She got up from the window, rage driving her to the inside of the room, and the ball…

It fell slowly from her hand, rolling across the floor, and forgotten.

Madeline felt her knees give out and her stomach lurch.

She sagged against the wall for support.

It was on the floor; she had left it on the floor, in the open… on the floor.

Maybe he- maybe she-

With her heart in her throat, she lurched out of the door, trying to act as if nothing was wrong, but knowing she couldn't, only to freeze the moment she saw her father's face.

It wasn't a good one.

The bottle he had been holding fell loosely from his hand; Madeline winced as the fragile glass shattered upon the floor the alcohol leaking and spreading into the carpet.

"Papa?" the word was small, tentative, and fearful.

Madeline couldn't see this going anywhere good.

Her father slowly started tossing the ball between his hands, much as she had the night before.

His gaze was pondering, almost serene.

Madeline wasn't fooled. She knew this was just the calm before the storm.

"Papa," she said again, her voice slightly louder but still timid, "Really, I must –"

"You were hiding things from me," his voice as eerily calm as his expression cut her off. Madeline gulped air, and felt her heart lurch.

She bit her lip, "Well I wouldn't- I mean I was just—"

"_Stop your babbling!_" Just like the wild winds of a hurricane his calm broke and the storm descended, "_You were hiding things from me!_"

"I only—" her voice was a squeak.

"I did not give you permission to speak! You do not speak unless you are spoken too!"

Madeline fought the vile that was building in her mouth. She wanted to fight back; she wanted to yell, but she knew that would get her no where.

Instead she hung her head, in apparent shame, to hide her murderous expression.

"I give you everything! And still you defy me!"  
_Everything? _Madeline could not hold it back any longer.

"How dare _I_?How dare_ you_—"

He reached out and struck her; his hand making a clap that sounded like thunder and her head snapped back. Her eyes watered in pain; the bruise that had been healing screamed and throbbed.

She no longer had a desire to speak; she merely wanted to keep in her tears.

Her father sagged suddenly, as if it had taken all of his anger just to make that strike.

He dropped the ball almost as if he had forgotten he had it in his hand.

It slowly rolled across the floor and bumped against Madeline's foot.

Unable to do anything else, she just stared down at it.

He looked at his hand momentarily as if shocked to see it there before noticing the shattered glass and sodden carpet.

"Clean that up," he said tiredly, as if his heart wasn't truly in the order, "I'll be back later to let you start the rest of your jobs."

With a nod, he tiredly walked back to the door.

As the locks made a metallic click Madeline sunk to the floor, limbs shaking, and tears slowly making their way down her cheeks.

Shakily she grabbed the ball in a firm grip and pulled it not her.

What did she do to deserve this?

* * *

Philippe stared at the newspaper dejectedly.

The headline glared up at him.

**De Rocha Girl in Chains**

It was everything he had wanted.

The story told of the De Rocha's family story; the story Sam had told him the day at the carnival. It went on to confirm Madeline's appearance at the carnival, and then tell of what Philippe had witnessed.

It was exactly what he had wanted, De Rocha's secret bold and in ink.

He had been so sure the atrocity would drive people together, to change something.

He had never been more wrong in his life.

The paper had come out over a week ago, and his mother's response was starting to look like one of the most considerate.

Philippe crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it away from him in disgust. The wind picked it up and blew it far across the park.

The day was as stormy and black as Philippe's mood.

The clouds darkened, and wind raged about him as he sat on an iron bench in the park staring up at the ominous form of the De Rocha Manor.

He was disgusted with the people, the nobles, of the town.

If it had nothing to do with them then they didn't care. They had no sense of community; they had no care for their neighbors.

I was all amusing gossip, so long as it doesn't affect them.

No one had any idea how dependant on other people they all actually were; particularly the nobles, who looked down upon everyone, but needed them to do everything.

Philippe stared at the old manor darkly.

He had failed, and who knew what kind of torture Madeline might be suffering while the rest of the wealthy world went about as if nothing was the matter.

"You are aware that a storm is coming, aren't you?" Sam's voice, soft and quiet despite the slightly teasing nature of the words came from behind him.

"I don't care," Philippe's tone was as hard and stubborn as his expression.

"You'll ruin your clothes," Sam pointed out coming around to stand in front of him.

Philippe laughed darkly, "Clothes Money! What do they matter? They don't really."

Sam, not knowing how to respond, chose to remain silent.

"I failed," Philippe's voice was raw with the despair he felt; it broke and dipped, "No one cares; _no one cares_."

"I'm sorry," Sam's voice was quiet, hard to hear over the roar of the wind.

Philippe looked up at him. The wind was blowing the strands of his dirt blond hair across his face, and his spectacles were slipping down his nose.

He gave his friend a sad smile, "No your not; you knew this was going to happen; you tried to tell me. You were right."

"Didn't mean I wanted to be," he said mournfully sitting down beside Philippe, "Didn't mean I didn't think there was something wrong with it."

"Yeah, well, I guess we're the only one's who did."

Philippe looked bleakly at the house. He watched as the wind tore a wobbling shutter away from its hinges and far across the park.

An idea stared to twinkle in the back of his mind.

"I really thought if anyone could…" Sam trailed off with a shrug, "so what are you going to do now?"

_So what are you going to do now? _The question reverberated off the corners of Philippe's mind hitting the glimmer of an idea, and growing into a full fledged idea.

He had thought he needed to change at least one person in this town, but why did he need someone else when he had already changed himself?

Without another word he pushed himself off the bench and started for the park exit.

"Where are you going?" Sam yelled after him in confusion.

Thunder clapped overhead.

Philippe turned and smiled, "To change something."

* * *

Madeline looked out the window at the growing storm.

The wind was picking up and they had already lost more than one loose shutter and shingle, and she was sure they were going to loose a lot more.

It had been over a week since her father had exploded over the ball and the house had been oddly calm since.

Her father had drunk even more in the last few days – if that was possible – and seemed to avoid her.

Madeline would never say that things had gotten better – she was still trapped in the house by the chains – but she could also say they hadn't got worse.

She was about to turn away from the window when a clap of thunder made her jump – and pull painfully against the chain, and she noticed two figures out in the park.

Who would be outside in this weather? At least one of them seemed to have the sense to be leaving.

She was about to turn away once more when she thought she caught a glimpse of the boy leaving. She thought she saw a boy with mousy brown hair, and shoulders that reminded her oddly of…

No. She shook her head. It was merely wishful thinking.

She had sent Philippe away, and it was going to stay like that.

Finally turning away, she started dragging her chains to the closed door at the end of the hall where she knew a staircase was being hidden – the staircase to the attic.

Having no real reason to be up in the attic, her father had never outfitted the staircase so she could make her way up there.

She couldn't get to the attic; she couldn't get to her painting.

In her hand she clutched her ball, which after almost loosing once she kept even more hidden and sunk to the floor.

Her ball was some comfort but in the darkest hours all she wanted to do was sneak up those stairs to her painting, to her mother… and father, a father that actually cared about her.

But she couldn't. She had no way to reach it.

So she would just sit as close to the painting as she could and pretend she could see it.

Leaning her head against the wall she conjured up her mother's smiling face, her father's proud eyes.

She could already feel their love coming down through the floor to her.

She jumped as a thud made its way through her ears into her thoughts.

Startled, she looked around her.  
At first Madeline thought it was just something knocked down by the wind. She was about to go back to her day dreams, when it came.

It wasn't the wind.

It was the door.

Sighing she pulled herself up.

If it wasn't some sales man, it was someone seeking shelter from the storm.

Neither one was going to get a warm greeting from her father.

Madeline made her way to the door as fast as she could. Not only was she worried about her father, but their rotting porch was unsafe on the best of days but in this storm…

She grabbed the handle and turned.

"I'm so sorry, but I can't –" her words died as the door opened all the way and a pair of surprisingly familiarly hazel eyes greeted her.

She gasped.

"Philippe."

* * *

**A/N: **So that was chapter five. As always I hope you enjoyed. And as always feel free to review - in fact I'm encouraging it - because I love to here what you think. What you like, what you didn't. Please, come and spill all.


	7. Chapter Six

****

A/N:

So, I'm actually a little surprised I got this one out on time. I have like three projects due friday and I'm totally stressing, but I managed to get this down. That being said... I did write it a little fast, so I'm not completely sure about it. I sort of skimped on the editting, but hopefully it's ok. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Philippe watched as surprise flashed on Madeline's face, twinkling in her deep blue eyes, only to be quickly replaced by confusion followed by a strange confliction of anger and fear.

It was funny how often those two emotions coincided.

For his part, Philippe felt relief when she opened the door – relief that she was ok, no more injured or incapacitated than before (besides the ugly mark on her face that seemed to have gotten worse not better that is) but also relief that his plan might just be able to work.

Underneath that relief was also a burning curiosity to know if she had found out what he had done. Did she know that he was trying to help her? If she did, did she think him foolish? Was she angry, touched, or hurt?

The most important question that was running through that vain of curiosity, though, was did she like him as much as he thought he might like her?  
He, however, ignored all this. He bit his tongue to keep all his jumbled thoughts to himself, and resisted the urge to just reach out and pull her into his arms.

Instead he managed a polite, curt nod, "Madeline, how are you this evening?"

He realized that despite the lack of light it was actually only early after noon, but he did not make an effort to correct himself for fear of ruining his professionalism. He had never seen his father admit to a mistake; despite the fact that Philippe knew he could think of several events this week in which he had been the one in error.

Madeline opened and closed her mouth in confusion, much like his mother had the before, but Philippe noted that the look was much more attractive on her.

Her nose wrinkled adorable when she did it.

"What are you doing here," she finally hissed obviously trying for intimidation but the breathy quality of surprise her voice had taken ruined the affect.

"If you must know," Philippe went on merrily, "I wish to speak with your father – I have a business proposition of sorts."

"You-you have?" Madeline bumbled for words, but just stared at him with shock when she was unable to find any.

Philippe took this opportunity to forge forward, "Now I will not take no for an answer, and don't think you can get me to goy with any of your _pushy _tricks. I'm on to you this time."

He had to bite down an unexpected spurt of amusement at her bashful blush. She straightened her thin but clean apron and looked at her feet.

"But why are you—" this time her voice was vulnerable, pleading.

"Uh-uh," Philippe tsked trying to put some teasing into it with out blowing his cover. Everything had to be just right for all this to work, "a man can not discuss business with the servant."

Madeline flinched slight at this comment, not much, but enough for Philippe to want to back track and take all his words back.

He probably would have too if at that moment a door off to the side of the foyer hadn't opened and a tall man with hair as dark as Madeline's and eyes of a rich deep brown hadn't stumbled out.

"Madeline," he stared before catching a glimpse of Philippe in the doorway "Who are you?"

Philippe taking advantage of Madeline's moment of stunned bafflement stepped forward allowing himself into the house without an invitation.

"Papa—" Madeline started but Philippe talked over her before she could get another word out.

"Mr. De Rocha, it's an honor really; I've heard so much about you," Philippe held his hand out for the older man to shake.

He stared at it stupidly.

"I'm Philippe Anderson. I believe you may know my father, Count Arnold Anderson."  
"What do you want?"

Philippe tried not to flinch at his barking tone; he had no idea how Madeline could handle this day in and day out.

"Well sir, as I was telling your maid her," Philippe avoided Madeline's gaze as he pretended not to know her, "who by the way attempted to keep me outside but I—"

"Quit your yammering and get on with it, boy!"

"I couldn't help noticing that your house is in need of repairs, "Philippe finish in a rush, "And I would like to offer my services."

"We don't have no money for you."

Philippe had expected this hurtle, "and I don't expect any. I just want the pride of knowing that one of the city's finest buildings is restored to its original glory."

Philippe was aware that he was laying it on a bit thick, but he hoped the old drunk wouldn't know the difference.

When he didn't reply immediately, "I'm real handy with a tool box," a complete lie; Philippe had never touched on in his life, "and I–"

"Do what you want."

Philippe smiled with his success, "Thank you so much sir- I will be back bright and early tomorrow," De Rocha stared walking away, "Oh and one more question sir?"

The man turned an irritated expression on his not exactly unattractive face.

"May I be permitted to wait out this storm in you home? I do not fancy a walk in the rain."

* * *

Madeline stared at Philippe, trying to convince her mind that the image of him sitting in her worn out parlor was real, not a figment of her imagination.

He was sitting on an old loveseat was faded and starting to wear through. His fine, rich, vibrant clothing looked out of place in the shabby room.

In fact, those clothes made the room, which Madeline had always thought the best kept in the house, look small, shabby and disgusting.

She wondered how he could stand sitting in it; she barely could.

His gaze was calmly focused on the flames, flickering and dancing in the hearth. Strands of his hair had been blown free and were hanging loose about his face, veiling it from Madeline's sight.

For her part, Madeline was putting her best effort in not staring at the unexpected guest.

Instead she stared at the square of bright wood above the fire place longing for the picture that had once hung there.

She feared her captivation would keep her from it.

A flash of lightning was followed by a rumble of thunder and a gust of wind that seemed to grab hold of the house, and try to pull it out of the ground.

Shivering, Madeline leaned forward to put more logs on the fire but go tripped up in her foot chains stumbling painfully forward and making a loud metallic clang against the floor.

The sound seemed to jolt Philippe into movement.

With a wiry glance at the metal attached to her leg he leaned forward out of his seat.

"I'll get it," his voice was soft and his eyes avoided hers.

Once the new logs were cracking merrily in the fire, Philippe surprised her by sitting o n the floor with her rather than back on the loveseat.

Madeline's chains were on some standard flexible but were not long enough to allow any real sitting position but one, close t the wall, and knees pulled into her chest, so as to keep her feet as flat as possible.

It was only more thing on her long list of lost freedoms.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence Madeline looked up shyly at Philippe from underneath her eyelashes to find him looking back at her with a deep thoughtful expression.

Running a hand through her hair she sighed tiredly, "What do you think you're doing Philippe?"

"honestly." He asked his gaze unwavering and voice bashful, "I don't know; I hadn't really thought much past this; I just thought if I could… maybe I could-"

"Nothing's going to change, Philippe; I told you that before. You can't change anything… no matter how much you may want to," she smiled sadly, "he's my father, and this is just my life."

Despite the melancholy tone of the words, Philippe's eye's lit up with determination. His words pulsed forward in a rush to leave his mouth.

"Bu you could leave, jus run away from here— I could—"

Madeline looked away. Leave – why hadn't this thought ever occurred to her? It had of course, but she had always rejected it – leaving… it was just…

She bit her lip, "I can't—where would I go… this is all I know… and really… he's still my father… my Papa," her voice broke; she took a moment to pull herself together, "somewhere, beneath the drunk he's still my Papa… I love him, somehow… I …still… do…" she trailed away surprised at the truth of her words; when all the bitterness as gone, when she just thought about it there was still a part of him that she loved, missed and desperately hoped to get back to her somehow.

She turned back to Philippe, "I can't- I don't think I could do that… this is my home."

Philippe's look was hard to interpret; she thought it might have been disappointment, but it was much more complicated than that.

They lapsed into silence. It hung over them like a blanket of unsaid words.

Madeline felt like something needed to be said but she had no idea what it was.

She had never had a friend before, she didn't now how these things worked; she didn't even know if that was what this was – friendship.

She really wanted it to be,

"Does that," Philippe seemed to be struggling for words; he slowly tapped the metal band on her foot, "Does that hurt… hurt you?"

"What this," she picked up her chained foot and slowly started twisting it in a circle.

Philippe's jaw clenched, "Yes- does it…"

"Not really; not right now… it's just sort of numb… sometimes when I accidently yank on it… or it chaffs a little… but it could be worse, I guess." She sighed.

"You know," Philippe said quietly, with a small smile, "could be worse, doesn't mean that something is good."

Madeline shrugged and smiled slightly, "Still means that things could be worse."

Madeline felt sudden warmth over her hand; she looked up surprised to find Philippe's hand over hers.

"Sorry if I want my friends to have the best they can," he said with a small smile.

"Friends?" she asked a blush creeping into her cheeks, a bashful smile growing on her face.

Philippe mirrored it with a large grin, "Of course."

* * *

**a/n: **So that was the chapter. Hope you enjoy! Please Review, and tell me what you think.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Philippe awoke with an uncomfortable ache in his neck and back; he didn't understand how that could have happened. He had the finest mattress money could by. Logic would state that he should not be waking in such discomfort.

And yet he was.

His clothes also scratched at him as if he had not changed into his night clothes, and his eyelids felt heavy and refused to open.

Philippe honestly couldn't remember ever being so uncomfortable in his life.

Nothing was making sense and he longed to go back to sleep and deal with the rest another time.

The air nipped at his right side as if at some point he had moved his blankets in his sleep.

He moved, wiggling trying to get comfortable and was surprised to find that his expensive bed had become as hard as a wall.

Groaning softly, he allowed his head to loll to the side and tiredly snuggled into his pillow.

Only it wasn't his pillow he snuggled into.

Instead of his soft squishy pillow, his head found something solid and smooth; the fine, yet soft texture of it reminded him of when he hugged one of his sisters and his head fell against their long hair.

Philippe slowly forced his heavy eyelids up to find the soft early morning light glowing off a pale smooth face, serine with sleep. The girl's dark hair was sprawled over her face and onto his shoulder, as was the rest of her. She had cuddled up to the side of him like he was the only source of heat in a frozen desert.

"Madeline."

Philippe smiled softly to himself; his voice sounded like a quiet caress as whispered her name.

He reached out an arm to slowly brush a strand of her hair away from her face, but his gaze instead fell on the chain on her foot. She shifted slightly making the chain softly clank and rattle like she was Marley's Ghost.

With a start, the night before came back to him.

He had been talking to Madeline, waiting for the storm to end, and then…

His memory trailed off and he turned towards the light, glowing a soft yet brilliant orange through the window.

A morning glow was what his mother liked to call it… morning…

"Oh Lord," Philippe said with a start jolting Madeline awake.

She blinked at him a couple of times before her eyes brightened with clarity and her already pale complexion blanched more.

"What time is it?" she asked the question as one might ask for the condition of a severely injured loved one. She dreaded the answer.

Madeline's look of panic, which to an extent mirrored his own, made the ball of tension tighten in his stomach.

He felt like he might be sick.

This wasn't good – not at all.

"Morning," he said his dropped with trepidation, "I think we… err… fell asleep."

The news sent a fresh wave of panic across the young girl's features.

Her eyes sparkled with an ill hidden mayhem as she lifted her hand as if to put it through her hair only to set it back down in her lap.

She started to babble, "Oh god- no, no- he could have- we didn't, but we did! How could we… you were, and then I was but no," she managed to actually get her hand through her hair this time making it stick up in place. She pinned Philippe with a wide-eyed stare that only served to make him want to protect her more, "Oh God- Papa- he's going to… What am I going to- God when he sees this-?"

"Hey, calm, he's not going to see this," Philippe on impulse grabbed her shaking hands and set them firmly in his own, "I mean we got away with it this long- It's still early… how hard can it be to make it look like all this never happened?"

The soft tone Philippe usually used on his younger sisters when they where terrified of imaginary ghouls under their beds seemed to sooth Madeline some.

At least she took a deep breath and steadied her hands. Slowly, almost hesitantly as if she didn't want to, she gently pulled her hands out of Philippe's and used them to smooth down her hair once more. She pulled it so it all hung over her left shoulder.

She nodded, "You're right – Papa's probably passed out. So, you just need to leave, and then I'll just… stay here."

Philippe tilted his head to the side; he didn't like the sound of that. Didn't she have a bedroom? If her father was going to chain her up the least he could do was have the decency to give her a place to sleep that wasn't the sitting room floor.

When he voiced these thoughts, Madeline gave him a sad smile. "Men who chain their daughters up tend not to have much decency."

"But—"

"That being said," she raised her voice over his interruption, her eyes twinkling as a slight smile started to appear on her face, "I do have a room."

"Then why don't you—"

Madeline looked pointedly at her bindings and Philippe fell silent.

He felt his barely controlled rage start to bubble up again. It had been bubbling beneath the surface ever since he woke up and saw the chain on her foot.

It was inhumane to keep anyone locked up, trapped in their own house. Especially an innocent, kind, sweet beautiful girl.

Philippe felt an odd pang in his stomach that rose to his chest, as he let his own hazel eyes lock on her deep blue ones.

_Madeline_

She was just so…

He was struck with the sudden notion that he would do anything for her- particularly getting her out of this place.

"You know," he spoke gently, hesitantly, remembering the night before, "I could—"

"No," her response was immediate and firm, "I couldn't… no."

Philippe nodded and looked at his feet. He didn't understand her loyalty to her father but he loved her compassion

"Then at least let me take it off, just for a moment, so you can go to your own room… you shouldn't have to stay here."

She bit her lip – Philippe was starting to notice she did that whenever she was nervous or unsure.

"Would you promise to put the key back exactly where you found it?" Her voice was quiet, and pleading.

Philippe gazed solemnly at her, "If that's what you wish."

She bit her lip and looked away for a long moment.

"Madeline, you can –"

She turned back to him, "Ok, let's do it.

* * *

Sitting on her bed Madeline was dreadfully awaiting the arrival of her father.

Would he know what happened? Would he remember that he hadn't let her back in her room?

_Oh God!_ What if he thought she had disobeyed him again?

She couldn't take anymore punishment. She didn't know what she had left to loose. She couldn't think of what else her father could do to punish her and that scared her more than anything else.

She unconsciously stuck her hand in her pocket for her ball, holding it securely in her grasp.

What if Philippe didn't put the key back right, or at all?

No, she trusted Philippe; she had to.

Madeline felt a slightly warm feeling spread out through her chest as she thought about the young man who had just recently left the house.

The warm feeling spread when she realized he would be back. Her father had actually agreed to Philippe's help.

With this thought in her head she looked down at her old faded dress and frowned.

She suddenly wished she had something better to wear.

Her closet, when she looked had nothing better than what she had on. All of her very limited clothing collection was in the same condition.

She looked like a lowly pauper.

Slamming the closed door closed with a frustrated sigh she let her gaze fall on the mirror in the corner.

She pulled her chin up trying to pretend she was pretty and sophisticated.

Her shoulders slumped.

She only looked like a child playing dress-up.

She was no lady.

She was the daughter of a poor drunkard that the world had forgotten about.

Turning her head to the side, Madeline reached a hand up, touching and appraising her injured cheek.

The bruise, healing slowly, was tinting her fair skin a rainbow of colours.

The centre of the bruise was a fading violet while the outside was a sickly green that faded to an even worse yellow around the edges. It was as if a child had taken to painting on her face.

Madeline dropped her hand with a strangled sob and felt as if she could cry.

She was worse than a pauper; she was a barbarian.

She was certainly not someone suited for the son of a count –what did that even make Philippe? A prince? It didn't matter the exact title, he was defiantly a royal.

Not that she wanted to impress Philippe. At least she didn't think so…

Biting her lip, she walked over to her window.

She recalled the moment of happiness she had felt when she had seen him at the door, and the sting of hurt and sham when he called her a servant. Even now, when she knew he had just been acting, she still felt wounded.

But neither of those things had anything to do with Philippe. Not really. Any kind face would make her happy, and she was always in a perpetual state of shame of her father and what he had done.

Philippe wasn't anything special.

And yet Madeline couldn't shake the feeling that he was.

He saw her; no one had ever seen her before. Not for a really, really, really long time. Her father didn't even see her, not really. He didn't see her as anything more than a painful reminder of his beloved wife, and a useful servant.

Philippe saw Madeline though, and nothing else.

_So it would be natural, _she rationalized, _to be attached to some one who did that for you._

She just felt gratitude and admiration towards Philippe, and nothing more.

Madeline, also, held no delusions that Philippe felt anything towards her.

She had seen first hand how idealistic he could be. She was nothing more than a project for him – a fight to fight.

Sure he had said they were friends… and maybe they were but that didn't mean that he wanted anything more than that… if that was indeed, what Madeline wanted.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked back towards her bed, determined to free Philippe of his obligation.

He couldn't win this fight; she had to get him to realize that now, and save him the struggle.

After all, that was what a friend would do, wouldn't they?

Still, Madeline couldn't help but remember the few minutes before she had full awoke, and the warm happy feeling she had felt staring up at Philippe, and the odd look he was giving her.

In that moment, before reality set in, she could have sworn that Philippe looked like he cared about her, a lot more than a friend should.

* * *

Philippe skipped down the De Rocha's front porch unable to keep the smile off his face.

He didn't care about the hour or the tantrum his mother was going to make when he finally got home.

He had done it; he had gotten a foot in the door. He was that much closer to Madeline.

He could free her, he knew he could – he just need to figure out how.

Even that couldn't get him down. He just felt too good.

He whistled as he walked along, completely ignorant of the cool post storm breeze blowing past him.

Philippe's brain was running though the morning, locked on the image of Madeline asleep, light bouncing off her pale skin making it seem as if it could be sparkling.

She looked so innocent and peaceful in her sleep. She didn't look like a girl locked in her own home.

In fact, she hardly ever did. Except when she allowed her fear of her father get the best of her, she looked like the girl he had met at the carnival. Young, carefree… beautiful; she was so beautiful.

Any moment he could spend with her he'd count himself honored.

He had never known anyone so selfless, so forgiving. He thought back to the night before, how she had professed that she couldn't leave her father; even after everything he had done to her, she still loved him.

It made Philippe guilty that he was always so angry with his mother for the most trifling things.

The more time he spent with Madeline the more things he found he wanted to fix about himself.

He could never be good enough for her; she was an angel.

Philippe walked briskly and got to his destination—a town house almost as extravagant as his own – in a few short minutes.

Ignoring the front door, Philippe walked to the back of the house, and tossed a handful of stones at an upper story window.

After a few moments a groggy and irritable Sam stuck his head out.

It took a few moments for him to focus on Philipp but when he did his expression darkened.

"Where the hell have you been?" He asked crossly, "You know your mother has been making a fool of herself contacting everyone she knows in a panic looking for you."  
Philippe smiled, completely unperturbed by this news, "I hope you told her I was with you."

"I did." Sam didn't sound to glad about this fact.

"Good," he smiled, "now let me up so you aren't a complete liar."

Sam just frowned darkly, "tell me where you were first."

Philippe sighed dramatically. Sam had never been a morning person. He could be such a girl about his sleep.

"Madeline's. I took cover from the storm and fell asleep."

Same paled and his jaw went slack, "You did _what?_"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Philippe said waving his hand flippantly, "preach at me after you let me in."

Sam continued to glare at him, but Philippe just kept smiling until his friend went back inside and came down the stairs.

He had known all along he would do it.

* * *

**A/N:** Ok, so that was chapter Seven. I hope you enjoyed! As always, I would love it if you took time to review and tell me what you think. I always love the opportunity to learn more. Also, I usually don't do this but I want to get as much feedback as I can so, here I go: I've been think of submiting some stories to some short story contest, so if anyone has some free time on their hands and feels like looking at some short stories, I would love if you could go over to my fictionpress account (I have the same pen name there) and check out three of my stories: The Chase, Footprints in The Snow, and The Mistake, and tell me what you think. I would really love to get those stories as good as they can be before I submit them. Thanks again :) Hope you enjoyed.


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N: **So so sorry that I did not update this for like months. I am a horrible person I know :p. However it is now summer and I promise to loyally update pretty much every week. Pink swear. Now on with the story.

**summary/review: **Philippe has wormed his way into working for Madeline's Papa, and he is telling Sam about it who is none to happy. On with the show!

**Chapter Eight**

"Good god Philippe? What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Sam, much to his friend's surprise, had listened to Philippe's tale in a horrified silence.

It was obvious, as the boy's face got more and more pale that he still feared what De Rocha was capable of.

Philippe honestly didn't see what the big deal was. Although the other man was larger in size, he was deeply inebriated by booze. If it came to it, Philippe felt as if he could take him in a fight.

With that in mind he leaned back casually in the high leather-back chair, and shrugged, "what I have to."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, "Don't you have any sense of self preservations.

Philippe leaned forward in his chair; resting his arms on his knees he looked at his friend keenly.

"What are you so afraid of?" Genuine curiosity coloured his voice. He didn't understand Sam's constant fear of the mere name De Rocha.

"The man chained his own daughter to the wall!"

He jumped from the chair, "Exactly! That's why it doesn't matter; I have to do something. I have to help her leave."

"How are you going to do that? Do you even have a plan, or are you running around blindly like you always do?" Sam raised his eyebrows expectantly. He already knew the answer but he wanted to hear his friend say it.

The other boy bristled defensively.

"I have a plan," Philippe claimed in a haughty voice that Sam knew to mean the exact opposite of his words.

"Oh yeah? Your Mr. Fix-it plan?" Sam laughed humorlessly before falling tiredly back into his own chair, "You've never even _looked _at a tool in you life, let alone use one."

"How hard can it be?" Philippe sat back down but sounded less sure of himself than he had before; Sam had finally found a chink in his armor.

However, he was too tired to push it.

"Does she even want to leave?" Sam asked softly, "You said yourself that when you mentioned leaving, she…"

Philippe looked away. He had been thinking that himself.

"That was just…" Philippe sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked back at his friend with a sad yet determined look in his eyes, "She's a good person; he's all she knows… she shouldn't be punished for that."

It was Sam's turn to look away. Despite his personal feelings he couldn't argue with that.

The girl had as much a right to a free life as he did… perhaps even more.

"Philippe," he said tiredly.

Philippe pushed himself out of the chair, "Look, Sam, I got to go… I should probably make an appearance at home before I go back." He started to go but stopped, "and before you say anything, I'm going back, so don't try to stop me."

"I wasn't going to."

Philippe started, surprised, "you weren't?"

"No; you have to do what's right," Sam responded, tired as ever, "Just try not to get killed in the process; finding a new best friend would be too much of a hassle."

* * *

Madeline smiled as she made her way to the back of the house accompanied by the semi-constant drone of a hammer against the building.

Philippe had shown up that morning just as he said he would and he had seemed to be working steadily ever since.

Madeline, however, had her suspicions and couldn't help but put them to the test.

She got to the back door and stopped. It was silent. Whatever Philippe had been doing he had stopped for the moment.

Her father had wanted her to be able to get to the small supply shed out in the back so he had put a thin pipe along the back of the house as well.

Madeline was glad for it. She didn't know what she would do if she had no way to get fresh air – if she had been truly trapped in the house in every sense of the word.

It was acts like this that made her wonder if her father did in fact still hold some feeling within. She had never actually truly _needed _to get to the shed for anything. So was it possible that her father had wanted to allow her some freedom?

She would never know.

Madeline stepped out of the door, taking in a deep breath as she went. _Freedom, _the chain rattled as she went, _well… sort of._

Letting her problems go, Madeline titled her head looking for Philippe.

He had started but…

"Philippe –" Madeline started towards the ladder leaning against the house but her words were cut off by a loud curse followed by a large object falling by her head. The closeness of the near disaster startled her so much that she let out a little squeal and ended up falling onto her backside.

"Oh Lord, Madeline!" Philippe scrambled down the ladder in a complete panic, "I am so sorry! I thought I had – I didn't know that you were—are you okay?"

Philippe huddled and flustered around her, checking each limb for wounds, concern colouring his face.

A face which Madeline took one look at and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Philippe's concern deepened for a moment, before he could figure out that they were giggles not tears, and then he looked stunned only for a moment before laughing himself.

After a few moments he held out his hand to help her up, "I really am sorry. Are you truly sure you're okay? I didn't – You didn't?"

He was started to get flustered again and Madeline was starting to feel giggle once more.

"I've never been better," she assured him with a wide smile before either of them could get too far in their emotions playing through them. She accepted his hand with a sparkle in her eye, "I haven't laughed like that for ages."

She gave him a sad smile, but not wanting to ruin her newly formed good mood she turned quickly away from him, before he could say anything, and appraised the house.

One look at it and she felt new laughter bubbling up in her.

"Is that that all you've done?"

Philippe blushed and rubbed the back of his neck looking bashfully at his shoddy work, "yes, well…. I may have exaggerated my skills in the area of carpentry just a wee bit."

"A bit?" Madeline's voice gurgled with suppressed laughter.

"It's harder than it looks you know!" Philippe said indignantly his face colouring further at her teasing.

Unable to hold it back longer, she erupted into another laughing fit.

In the hours that Philippe had been out there, he had only manage to get to two shutters and both seemed to be the worst – not the better – for having been in contact with him.

Finally a rueful smile grew across his face.

"They are a bit—"

"Pitiful," Madeline smiled, "Completely and utterly pitiful."

Philippe pretended to look offended but his eyes sparkled giving his true humor away, "Miss De Rocha I did not believe you could be so cruel."

"I am terribly sorry," she apologized, a smile still playing across her face, "How would you like it if I made it up to you?"

Philippe raised an eyebrow at her, "And just how are you planning on doing that?"

Madeline blushed at the thoughts that his tone made her brain jump to. Surely he wasn't trying to suggest anything like _that!_ They hardly knew each other.

She shook the thought away, and returned his smile.

"How do you feel about lunch?"

* * *

Philippe devoured the sandwich in a few quick bites and glanced around the room for more. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten since the day before.

"That was delicious."

"How would you know?" Madeline put her hand on her hips after handing him another, "I don't believe you even tasted that."

He smiled at her sheepishly, "I was hungry."

She laughed.

Philippe was finding he loved her laugh. It was soft and delicate like wind through chimes. It was musical and endearing. It wasn't just the sound, though, that attracted Philippe. In fact, the sound was one of the last things he noticed. What he really loved was the cute way her nose wrinkled and her face lit up in a way he had never seen before.

Madeline, he decided, had a face that had been made to laugh, and yet she never did it far enough.

He imagined, however, she managed to find reason to do it far more than he would have had he been in her place.

Philippe wanted her to laugh again – he wanted her to laugh all the time.

She deserved that kind of care-free life; not the miserable one she got.

With that thought in mind he looked around the room. It was a large spacious room that like the rest of the house looked to have been at one time grand, but its better days had long since gone past. It had lots of cabinets and counters, as well as a large wood-burning stove. It was obviously a room meant to be filled with many bustling servants.

Not one lone, chained little girl.

Madeline looked even smaller and out of place in such a large room. It made Philippe sad.

"Don't you ever just…" Philippe started his question but stopped himself. He didn't want to push her into things she claimed she didn't want. Yet her small honest face, suddenly pulled into open curiosity at his hanging question as too much for even his good intentions, "want to leave this place? Be some where new- different – special?"

"Of course I do," she answered without hesitation. "There is so much I don't know but…" she trailed off and was silent for a long moment. She suddenly gave him a hard appraising look, "Why are you doing this Philippe? Why do you care so much about this? You know you can't do it right? You are going to waste your life away on little old me?"

Philippe was stopped into silence for a moment. He had thought they had gone over this before.

"I don't care about this – I care about _you_," Philippe said emphatically, "whatever you say, you are not happy here. I don't like seeing my… friend unhappy."

She stared at him a long moment. Opening and closing her mouth as some emotion Philippe couldn't recognize flashed across her face.

"But… but what about you – your life? This isn't possible – you'll spend your whole life here trying to… help me." She seemed as determined to stop him as he was to save her.

"Then here is where I spend it."

"But-but… you'll waste it! You'll –"

Philippe couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to – and he was pretty sure he didn't.

With a strange feeling bubbling up in his stomach, he reached over and laid his hand on top of hers.

"No life I spent with you could ever be called wasted."

* * *

Philippe burst into his house in a determined frenzy.

"Nancy! Nancy –" he raced though the halls trying to find his nurse, "I need you!"

"Good lord, Poppet! What has gotten you into such a tizzy?" she paused a moment before giving him a knowing smile, "It's that girl again isn't it Poppet?"

Philippe flushed but refused to let her deter him. He had a mission that he wasn't going to let go of.

"I need your help."

"Well, of course Poppet – I'll give you anything you need."

Philippe smiled slightly, "Well, actually, it's not so much _your _help that I need but your husbands."

"_James! _What on earth are you up to Poppet?" Nancy through her shock managed to give him a reprimanding look that seemed to say 'I know you're getting into trouble'.

"Yes, him," Philippe bore on ignore both her question and the look, "Is he still a carpenter?"

* * *

**A/N: **well that was the chapter. I hope you enjoy. I promise to have another one up in about a week, and as always please reveiw! I love hear what you think. Constructive Critisim welcome and wanted!


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Madeline sat in the dingy parlor, staring at her caged foot unseeingly, a goofy grin playing softly on her face.

_No life I spent with you could ever be called wasted._

Philippe's words ran through her head, a warm feeling spreading through out her body. Once the original shock of the statement had worn off, Madeline had been unable to shake off the happy feeling it had generated. Nothing, not the constant ache in her foot, or her father forgetting to let her back in her room, could make her upset.

She had only had this feeling once before – the few moments when she had awoke the other morning, and found Philippe's open, honest face staring down at her.

He was such a gentleman – perfect really. He had managed to embody every quality that Madeline had, at a young age, decided a man should – compassion, humor, a little bit of charm.

_No life I spent with you could ever be called wasted._

Madeline blushed. There was no denying it anymore – if she even really ever had. Philippe, with his smiles, and strong declarations had wormed his way into her heart. She was falling hopelessly in love with the son of a count – _her, _the poor trapped daughter of a drunkard, no better than a servant despite her noble blood.

As sheltered as her life had been, she felt that she knew how these things worked. Philippe was meant to, and no doubt would, marry a _true _nobleman's daughter, one that had fine clothes and pale, unblemished skin.

Madeline looked down at her work worn, callused hands and sighed. Her warm feeling diminished slightly, and the throbbing of her ankle managed to grow, taking over her head, for a moment.

She was a useless girl – covered in cinders and grime.

But still…

_No life I spent with you could ever be called wasted._

Once again, Philippe's words popped into her head and her warm happy feeling flared once more.

_She _was the one he had said kind heart-warming things to.

Not them.

Never them.

For that evening, Madeline allowed herself to hope, to believe.

And with those thoughts in her mind, Madeline fell asleep, left to dream of a different life – one where her father acted like he should, and Philippe looked at her like she was the only girl in the world.

* * *

Philippe, his thumb sore and bruised, and mind full of tips and instructions spent his night quite differently.

More exhausted than he had ever been in his life – and yet happier – he fell quickly into a deep dreamless sleep, and awoke the next morning to a happy high pitched squeal, and a sudden, and slightly painful addition of weight to his stomach region.

With a groan, he opened his eyes to find the open and happy face of a small child smiling down at him.

"Morning Philly!" the little girl squealed, obviously proud of herself.

"Marie," Philippe smiled ruefully at her as he pulled himself into a sitting position, "how did you get in here?"

"I walkeded in," she replied scrambling up further so she was sitting on his lap.

At the age of five, Marie was the youngest and most mischievous of Philippe's sisters. Therefore, she was also his favourite.

"Of course you did." He pulled at one of her deep brown curls, making her giggle.

"Philly?" she paused a moment to give Philippe a smile that had he not known better would have looked innocent, "Who is Made-Madeline?"

Philippe started, and looked at his sister closely.

"Where did you hear that name?"

How could she know about Madeline? Philippe hadn't told anyone about her not really.

Marie giggled, "silly – you says it when I comed in."

Philippe felt himself go deep red. He had no idea he was speaking in his sleep. He thanked the lord it had only been Marie that had walked in and heard him. His blush deepened as a horrible thought occurred to him: what if he had started speaking the other day when he had fallen asleep at Madeline's?

After a moment, however, he collected his thoughts and managed to take the revelation in stride.

"She's the most beautiful, kind, thoughtful, amazing girl I know," Philippe responded, then after noticing his sister slighted face he pulled her curl again, "after you of course."

Marie giggled and threw her tiny arms around his neck.

"Philly, will you play wiff me today? Pwease?" she pulled away and batted her big brown eyes at him.

Marie would be a real killer when she came of age. She could already play her brother like a string, and he knew it.

Philippe felt his own heart drop in disappointment at the thought of disappointing his sister.

"Marie, I'd love to, but I have to go out today."

The little girl's features clouded and her eyes started to swim.

"You always out! You never pway wiff me!" she pouted.

Philippe bit his lip.

"Do you what to know a secret, Marie?" Instantly the girl was all sunshine, "I have to go see the pretty girl; she needs my help."

Marie's eyes lit up with excitement, "I come too? I want to see pretty girl!"

Philippe hesitated.

"I don't know Marie – it's not a place for little girls."

"But I five now!" Marie confidently stuck out her hand, showing Philippe only four of her little fingers. Philippe had to hold back a laugh, "I big!"

Philippe bit his lip. He thought of the state of Madeline and her house; he thought of her father, and ultimately what a hassle Marie would be.

Then he took one look at her honest little girl face, and knew how completely incapable he was of saying no to her.

"If you promise to be good, and do _everything _I say, I guess you can come."

The instant she had her arms around him Philippe couldn't bring himself to regret the decision.

* * *

When Madeline opened the door the next day, to allow Philippe into the house, she was attacked by a flurry of brown and pink. Madeline's instincts just kicked in, and when the small child had her arms around her neck, she could do nothing more than accept the hug.

Through the cloud of hair, smiles, and bows she heard a soft chuckle followed by Philippe's bemused voice.

"I'm sorry, her highness here, has a tendency to get what she wants," the little girl finally pulled away and Madeline could see the smile that matched Philippe's tone, "and today she decided she wanted to meet you."

Madeline smiled at Philippe, and then at the little girl whose deep brown hair, the exact colour of Philippe's, was in ringlets tied together with pale pink bows that matched her fine dress.

Obviously, this must have been Philippe's sister.

Madeline crouched down so she was about level with her, "Hello, I'm Madeline."

"I know that," the girl said with a saucy little smile.

"Marie!" Philippe reprimanded, but Madeline just laughed She liked the girl already, "That's not how Mama taught you to introduce yourself.

Marie pouted at her brother for a few moments, but when his stern stare didn't lessen she hung her head meekly and turned towards Madeline.

"How do you do?" she curtsied shakily and gave her a smile that was obviously put on for the 'show'. Demure was the word that might have come to mind, "I am Marie Arabella Anderson."

Madeline struggled to hold back a giggle, but when she caught Philippe's eye, who was doing the same thing, she almost lost it.

"It's lovely to meet you, Marie – would you like to come in?"

Marie didn't need a second urging.

With a smile much more genuine and dazzling than the first – not to mention mischievous – she ran, very unlady like, into the house.

Following her in at a much more dignified pace, Philippe apologized once more, "My mother has been unable to teach her any manners that have been able to stick."

"That's alright," Madeline giggled, "I think that she's absolutely charming, just the way she is."

"You know what, so do I."

Once allowed in the house, Marie had taken it as a full invitation to roam the whole building. In the few moments longer it had taken her brother to get into the house, she had already disappeared.

When Madeline noticed him searching the small foyer for her, she mentioned that she thought she saw her sneak off into the parlor.

When they walked into the room, Marie stopped jumping from furniture to furniture and ran up to them.

"This is your house?' she asked focusing her wide eyes on Madeline, "Why it so dirty – don't you have a maid?"

Philippe's eyes widened and his face coloured, "Marie! You're old enough to know that not everyone has as much money as we do. Some people can't afford all the things we have. It's not polite to point it out!"

Madeline would have felt embarrassed if Philippe hadn't been enough for the both of them. In fact, his face was so funny that she was having trouble not laughing.

Marie eye's widened in an 'oh' look, and she looked bashfully down at her feet.

Madeline couldn't stand to see such an adorable child suddenly so downtrodden.

"But your brother's going to help make it as glamorous as yours," she bent down so she as eye level once more, "are you going to help your brother fix my house?"

"No," Philippe said before Marie could answer, "she is going to be a good girl, and sit quietly while I work."

Marie nodded her head earnestly, and Philippe, with one last smile, took her out back, to begin his work again.

Madeline smiled as she watched them leave; she was glad Philippe had brought his sister along. She got to see him in a role she never had before, and she liked it. Seeing him as the kind, protective big brother just proved everything she had always thought about him.

Philippe Anderson was someone to admire.

A few hours later, once she was sure her father was safely snoring in the south wing, Madeline quietly let herself out back, and was surprised by what she saw.

Although he was by no means a professional, Philippe's skills with a tool box had improved greatly – now he appeared to actually know which end of a hammer was which, and the house was, slowly, improving.

Madeline shook her head with a rueful grin. Philippe had obviously gotten some lessons somewhere.

Philippe, too caught up in his work, didn't notice her, but Marie, quietly sitting on a blanket colouring on some paper, did.

Madeline made a gesture for her to be quiet and snuck over to her.

"Are you hungry Marie?" the little girl nodded, "Do you want to help me make a snack? We can surprise your brother."

Marie beamed, and looked like she was about to make more noise, but Madeline shushed her with a finger to her lips.

With a wave of the hand, the two girls snuck into the house, and Madeline closed the door tightly behind her. Turning around, she found Marie giving her a strange look.

"Maddy," the girl said, shortening her name like she had done with her brother's, "why you got that thing on your foot?"

Madeline looked down at her foot in slight surprise. She hadn't exactly forgotten that it was there, but she had forgotten that Marie wasn't use to seeing it, "Well, Marie—"

"Are you a princess?" suddenly Marie's eyes got wide with excitement, "Princesses always gets trappeded by evil men… and, and Philly can kiss you! That will save you!"

Madeline flushed at the thought of Philippe's lips o hers. _He wouldn't-he doesn't—_

Madeline shook those thought out of her head and put a smile on her face.

"I'm not a princess Marie, I'm just a girl – and the man who did this… he's not evil, he's just… unwell." Madeline sighed.

Marie wasn't buying it. She had her own thoughts and she wasn't going to change them.

She boldly placed her hand in Madeline's, "I thinks you is a princess and Philly's gonna save you – he good at saving."

Madeline just smiled and led her into the kitchen. After showing Marie what she wanted her to do, the two girls worked companionably, and Madeline grew fonder of the little imp every moment.

"Maddy," Marie's voice was childishly innocent, "do you love Philly?"

Madeline froze in place and almost dropped the glass she was holding.

What could she say to that? She couldn't state the truth, could she? That would be… forward-embarrassing-impossible.

"That would be silly of me, wouldn't it?" Madeline tried to laugh, her smile faltering slightly, "Could you see your brother with someone like me? He's a very special person – he deserves someone better than me. A _real _princess."

Marie was silent for a moment, and Madeline hoped that she had forgotten about it.

"I thinks you's do love him," she said simply, sliding herself off her chair, "And I thinks he loves you, and you goin' to gets marrieded, and then we's be sisters."

Marie walked over to Madeline and took her hand, "I wish you was my sister."

"I wish you was my sister, too," Madeline smiled down at her, and then grabbed the food tray, "Now let's go give this to your brother."

"Philly!" Marie raced towards her brother a moment later; who, in turn, picked her up and spun her around.

"And where did you scamper off to?" he asked once he set her down.

"Me and Maddy makes you food!" she squealed as Madeline caught up caring the food tray.

"You and Maddy, eh?" Philippe raised an eyebrow at Madeline, Marie having already run back to her blanket.

"She really is precious," Madeline said, blushing, and avoiding Philippe's direct gaze as Marie's question ran through her head, "I wasn't aware you had a sister."

"I have two more at home, and unfortunately, they aren't as _precious_ as Marie," Philippe smiled as he took a sandwich off the tray.

Madeline was trying to come up with a response to this when Marie came running up to them, a small book in her hands.

"Maddy," she stood below Madeline, her eyes wide and pleading, "will you read me the story? Its got princesses!"

Madeline felt her stomach drop suddenly.

"Oh, well," she felt her cheeks redden. She couldn't tell them, could she? But she couldn't disappoint Marie's hopeful face… not without a good reason.

She met Philippe's concerned gaze, and then quickly looked away. She couldn't do this if she knew he was looking right at her.

Oh God, what will he think?

"Well, you see," she said quietly, fiddling with her skirt, "I can't read."

* * *

**A/n: **So that was chapter Nine, I hope you enjoyed it! Most typo's in Marie's speach are meant to be there, that is my attempt to make her talk sound like a five year olds, I hope I pulled it off, I'm not compeletly sure sometimes. Anywho, thank you for reading, and as always I would love it if you could review and tell me what you think - what you did, and didn't like... maybe your favourite line/part, or even something you hated. I am a big girl, I can take it. Anywho... review!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

Philippe froze, an emotion beyond surprise surged through him; Madeline couldn't read. The thought had never occurred to him. It was so far from his mind that had someone asked him prior to this moment he would have told them it was impossible.

But it wasn't.

In fact, it was completely possible and the reality.

Slowly he shook his head. How could he have been so ignorant? Tons of people didn't know how to read; more probably didn't than did. The poor not only didn't have the means to learn, but the time either.

Philippe told himself he had to remember that.

"You never learned?" he finally asked softly.

Madeline continued to stare across the yard as she spoke, too embarrassed to look him in the eye, "My Mama died when I was five – my father didn't care. Anything anyone might have managed to teach me, I've since forgotten."

Philippe touched her shoulder softly. He didn't like that she was avoiding his gaze. She never needed to do that. There was nothing to be embarrassed of, and he told her just that.

"I bet all the other girls you know can read," she had turned her body towards him, but was looking at her feet.

Philippe gently pushed her chin up with two fingers, "Maybe, but their head are filled with air; you're by fat the smartest I've ever met."

Her face coloured, but a small bashful smile spread across her face.

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not," he shook his head, then paused thoughtfully, "but if you would like… well, I could teach you… to read – write too, if you'd like."

Madeline's face seemed to freeze, as if, like with Philippe moments before, the thought had been inconceivable.

And then slowly, a wide open smile spread across her face.

"I think I would like that very much."

Philippe mirrored her smile.

"Good – I _know _I would like that very much."

* * *

"B… b… baa-baad, Bad!" Madeline beamed up at Philippe as the letters stopped swirling and made sense to her eyes.

After days of going over the letters of the alphabet, Philippe showing her how to draw them, and getting her to remember what sounds they made, they had finally moved on to stringing them together in words.

It was slow going but…

"Good," Philippe beamed at her, "that's really good."

"Actually," Madeline said a coy smile drawing on her face as she tapped the slate, "It's bad. See 'B' 'A' 'D', bad."

Philippe pulled the board from her hand as she laughed.

"Now don't be giving the teacher sass, young lady!" He tried to sound stern but the smile growing on his face destroyed it.

Madeline felt all tingly and alive as Philippe handed her the slate once more, with a new word to discover. It might be rough, but she was reading. She couldn't believe it. Madeline had never thought that she would, but here she was! Reading!

"T…ti… tim… timee?" she squinted at the word, using the low 'I' sound, and pronouncing the 'E'.

"Not quite," Philippe said tapping the board, "This is a tough one." He went on to remind her that vowels made two sounds, and that with an 'e' on the end the word wanted her to use the other one.

Madeline let out a soft 'oh' sound and squinted at the word again, "T-ti-time- Time!"

Philippe smiled in agreement, and Madeline beamed. She let out a small giggle. Her wonder was just too much to contain.

Madeline de Rocha was reading.

Although she didn't realize it, this was the first step in becoming the woman she was always meant to be.

* * *

The weeks went by easily in this manor. Everyday Philippe would show up at her home, to spend his morning fixing the place up, and his afternoon with Madeline, helping her with her words.

By the time a little over a month had past, the de Rocha manor had new shutters, shingles and paint. It was looking better than Madeline ever thought it would, and she herself was able to read through small children's books on her own and much larger volumes with Philippe's help when she got stuck.

One of her favourite was a large tome they had found in her father's long forgotten library – a book that spoke of different and far off places.

The book reminded Madeline that there were lives out there completely different to her own. There were struggles far harder than hers and life far lighter too. The book gave her hope – hope for something different.

Presently, the two were sprawled in the sunlight that shone through the big windows in her father's study, reading about a place with little men that were suppose to be lucky, and no snakes at all. Not a single one on the whole island!

Madeline wondered what it would be like to live on an island, with water surrounding you on all sides. Trapping you really – you couldn't leave except by boat – and yet the image Madeline had in her head was much more freeing.

"I want to see this place… sometime," she sighed, running her hand over a vibrant green picture, "and everywhere else in this books too." She paused a moment, rolling onto her back, careful not to get her foot caught up in the chain. Closing her eyes she reveled in the feeling of the sunlight on her face, letting images play on the inside of her eyelids like motion pictures, "I'll travel the world, seeing every place in it; maybe I'll join a carnival – travel with them. That's what I'll do, when I'm…"

She trailed off letting the statement hang in the air, realizing a little too light what affect it might have on Philippe's thoughts. She didn't open her eyes. Madeline was going to dream, and dream for as long as she could.

"Madeline," Philippe's voice was low and hesitant. For a moment Madeline almost thought she detected a note of pain, but that was ridiculous, "If that's what you want – all you have to do is ask; I could get that chain off you… you'd be free, to do as you wish."

Madeline opened her eyes and smiled sadly up at Philippe, who was leaning over her, the sunlight hitting his skin making it sparkling, and his hair spilling into his face. She found she had to resist the urge to push said hair back where it came from. She bet it felt soft.

"Philippe," she sighed, pulling herself into a sitting position, "I want to, I really do, more than anything but… I can't – my father. Even after everything, I wonder who will take care of him if I'm not here. How will he get his food? If I wasn't here he'd…"

Philippe's face contorted into a grimace, "Him! What about you? Who's taking care of you, now?"

Philippe slammed his hand angrily to the ground. Madeline's heart leaped a bit at this display – maybe he… no, he was just concerned for a friend, nothing more.

"You," slowly she covered his hand with her own, "You're taking care of me – and I thank you, even thought it's more than I deserve."

An odd look crossed Philippe's face, and he continued to stare at her for a long time.

"Madeline," he stopped a moment, looking like he wanted to say something important, but then changed his mind, "You deserve it, and so much more. If you don't want to leave, that's fine, but… at least let me take the chain off. I can't…"

Madeline slowly looked between her foot, Philippe and then back again. She so much wanted to be free of it, and she trusted Philippe… but did she trust herself?

What would she do if she could move around the house freely – leave freely?

She could…

A thought struck her.

"Ok, but only if you'll come with me to see something – maybe it will help you understand better why I'm so determined to stay."

* * *

Philippe followed Madeline up a set of stairs he didn't know existed, reveling in the silence that followed each of her footsteps. No more clanking. It was music to his ears. It might not have been exactly what he wanted, but it was a start.

The stairs turned out to lead up to the attic, which was as badly lit, and completely cluttered as any attic aught to be.

Philippe picked up a small tarnished hand-mirror and began to choke on the dust that erupted from it.

Madeline apologized, but Philippe waved it off.

"Let's see this mystery item then?"

He was actually getting quite curious, at what could be so important in the attic.

Without any fanfare but with a small nervous smile, Madeline stepped out of the way to reveal a family portrait. Philippe's eyes immediately locked on the pair of blue eyes he now knew so well. This was _her _family portrait.

Philippe's eyes moved in awe from face to face. It was so much different from the family that he knew today, that he could hardly believe it was the same one.

But of course, it was.

"Is that your mother?" Philippe took a stepped forward to look closer at the blonde woman in the painting, "She's a beautiful woman – you look a lot like her you know."

Madeline blushed and shook her head, "No I don't – you're just trying to be polite."

"I'm not," Philippe said vehemently, looking at the painting to find exactly what about Mrs. de Rocha made him think of her daughter, "not the hair, obviously, you have your father's hair, but… you both have the same small build, and the eyes… they're not just the same colour, but you both have the same look in them – good humor, and barely contained mischief."

Madeline continued to blush, and looked down at her feet.

"I use to come up here, and look at the painting, wondering what she would be like, if she were hear today," she paused and gave Philippe a sad smile, "she died so long ago, I can't really remember her."

"I'm sure she would be a lot like you – kind, sweet…"

Madeline's gaze had moved from the woman to the man, and Philippe trailed off to allow her, her thoughts.

To Philippe's eye de Rocha was the biggest surprise. He looked nothing like the man that Philippe knew. It would be an insult to this de Rocha to say that the man he was now was even a shadow of the former.

"I use to think she'd be disappointed in me," Madeline continued in a sad broken voice, "that she would be disappointed and angry that I didn't keep Papa… that I let Papa…"

Even in the dim attic Philippe was sure he saw he wipe away tears.

At that sight something grew in his stomach, "No- no, she would never be disappointed in you. It's not your fault; you were a child, it wasn't your job, still isn't. If she would be disappointed in anyone it would be him. And even then people have a way of forgiving those the lo—"

Philippe bit his lip, stopping his words suddenly. He knew what this was, what was growing. He had known it downstairs, but hadn't been brave enough to say it.

Could he this time?

"Madeline, I – what I mean to say is – you're…" he stopped and looked away. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't quite get the words past.

"Philippe? Are you okay?"

He held up a hand. He might not be able to actually say the words, but an old slate that was laying precariously atop a crooked pile of hat boxes gave him an idea.

Dusting it off, he pulled out the chalk he always kept in his pocket now, and wrote what he wasn't able to say.

"I got another sentence for you."

Madeline took the slate while giving him an unsure, appraising look. She knew something was up.

But thankfully she played along.

"I – I L- I Loov—"

"Remember what I told you about vowels and 'E's," Philippe managed to choke out when she started going for the wrong 'O' sound.

"I lo- I lov- I love," Madeline's eyes widened a moment, and she shot Philippe a quick glance before looking back at the words before her, "I love- I love y- yo- you… I love you."

Madeline stood frozen, just staring at the slate in her hands for a long moment. Philippe thought his heart might implode – he was being stupid, foolish; he shouldn't have—

She finally unfroze and locked herself in his gaze.

"You… me…" she stuttered, pointing at the slate. When he nodded she just began to stutter more, "But…"

Philippe could feel every nerve in his body. Every moment that went by without an outright rejection added to his hope.

When he detected the edges of a smile growing on her lips, he lost all control.

Without giving a thought, Philippe stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

* * *

**A/N: **ok well, there is your next chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, and as always please review. I would love to hear what you like or didn't like. Tell me your favourite part if you want, or your least - constructive critism!


	12. Chapter eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

Philippe spent the next few weeks as if he was walking on clouds. He avoided going to bed for there was no way his dreams could be any better than life, and he reveled in the feeling he got when he woke up and remembered it all over again.

Madeline loved him – she loved him. It was an undeniable fact now.

Everyday when he arrived at the De Rocha manor he could barely contain himself; he had difficulty not just pulling her into his arms and never letting go.

Now that she wasn't chained they would explore the house, going into all the rooms Madeline hadn't been able to get into before, always ending up in the attic. It was as if De Rocha and his oppression had never existed.

Philippe almost forgot about his desire to see Madeline leave the house.

Almost.

"Very attractive," Madeline giggled as Philippe prance in front of a long forgotten mirror, a floppy hat firmly placed on his head, "very you."

"You think?" Philipp pretended to appraise his appearance carefully.

He, of course, looked ridiculous. Not only was the hat more than twenty years out of date, but a woman's bonnet to boot.

"Well then Madeline," Philippe made an elaborate show of presenting her with money he didn't actually have, "I believe I will take it."

Giggling Madeline grabbed the empty, outstretched hand and pulled; Philippe toppled gracelessly onto the floor beside her.

Laughing himself, he took the hat off his own head and placed it on hers, "There. Much better, I'm sure."

Madeline blushed prettily, and placed a hand on the hat. Unable to resist himself, Philippe leaned in for a quick kiss.

"You're beautiful, no matter what you're wearing; I hope you know that."

Madeline's blush deepened, but she was starting to get use to Philippe's abundant praise, and recovered quicker than she had in the past.

"You're not so bad yourself," she managed to squeak out with a shaky voice, her gaze anywhere but Philippe.

Again Philippe couldn't stop himself; she was just so adorable, and modest, and everything that Philippe wanted.

This time the kiss lasted a little longer. Finally Madeline gently pushed on his shoulders.

"My father," she breathed.

"He'll never come up here."

"_Philippe_," it was an amused warning.

"I'm stopping; I'm stopping," Philippe pulled away with a bashful grin, "I'm sorry. It's just I-you…"

Philippe stopped, unable to get the exact words to come out of his mouth.

Madeline smiled at him knowingly. She knew what he meant without the words.

They sat in companionable silence, Philippe's mind wandering in a direction it had been heading many times over the last few days. He snuck a small look at Madeline beside him. He wanted to but could he? She was so…

"Madeline, I've been thinking…" he hesitated a moment and Madeline made a sound in the back of her throat to indicate she was listening, "Well… you-should-go-to-the-lord's-ball-with-me."

The last part came out of his mouth in a rush with all the words slurred together in one big mash.

"A ball? Me?" Madeline had been able to pick out the important words from the garble. Her blue eyes widened in surprise and her face paled a little more, "No-no… I don't think that's such a good idea."

Philippe turned to look at her closely, "Why not?"

"Well… I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I'd be out of place."

"You hardly have to do anything – I know all the dances, you'd just follow my lead," Philippe blinked at her earnestly. The ball would be absolutely unbearable if he had to go alone, if he had to go without Madeline.

Madeline's face looked panicked as she searched desperately for an out, "What about my father?"

"What about him? He'll be long passed out by that time. He'll never know you were gone."

"That reasoning went so well the last time," she looked pointedly at her leg.

Although the chain was gone the mark it had left one her skin, raw and bruised, was still healing. That punishment had not been forgotten, not truly forgotten, by either of them. Philippe gulped. He couldn't risk putting her through that again. He wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"Well than we'll ask him!" Philippe spoke with increasing determination as the plan cemented itself into his brain. He climbed to his feet in excitement.

Madeline sprung up after him "Wait, what? No Philippe."

"The worst he can do is say no, maybe yell a bit about it."

"Philippe! Please, _Philippe_!"

Madeline continued to plead with him as they made their way down the staircase and through the halls to Mr. De Rocha's usual haunt. For once her pleading did not work on him. This was for her own good. Madeline needed to leave this house at least for a little while.

"Philippe," she flung herself at him as he reached the door her father was behind, "Please, don't. We can… we can…"

Her wide, desperate eyes made him falter for a second, but he shook his head and went for the handle.

"I'm sorry Madeline, but I have to do this. If he says no, I'll never speak of it again."

With those words he opened the door and went in. Although he left it open Madeline did not follow him. She hovered by the door, peaking around it like Marie looking for a place in 'grown up' talk.

The acrid stench of alcohol consumed the room. De Rocha sat slumped, but conscious, in a large, worn, wing-back chair.

"What do you want?" he barked upon Philippe's appearance.

"Well sir, I would like to ask your permission to—"

"Spit it out, don't got all day!"

"To take your daughter to a ball. I would—"

"Do what you want," De Rocha's voice was suddenly tired.

"Pardon?" Philippe was shocked; he didn't think it would be so easy, "Did you hear—"

"Yes I heard you; I don't care. Do what you want!"

"Thank—"

"Get out!"

Philippe didn't wait for him to repeat that order. He was back in the hall smiling in a matter of seconds.

"Well, that's that then."

Madeline blinked at him, looking as shocked as he had felt moments before.

"Clothes," she managed to stutter, "I wouldn't know what to wear even if I had it."

Philippe gently set a hand on her shoulder.

"You let me worry about that."

* * *

Madeline jumped when the knock on the door came.

It had been a week since Philippe had asked her father about the ball, and until that morning they hadn't talked about it again. That morning, however, he had shown up at her door and placed the ivory card into her hands.

"You're going."

His voice held a tone of finality that told Madeline not to argue with him – if she could even have found one in her scattered brain.

Madeline wanted to go – who wouldn't? A ball was a highlight of any nobleman's year. Much like reading, it was a thing that she had never thought she would go to.

But what better way to prove that she was a barbarian than to stick her in a room of finely groomed nobles. She would stand out like a sore thumb. She may be a nobleman's daughter by blood, and have every right given to her by that, but she wasn't raised like one. She had no idea how to act like one.

Philippe went o answer the door as Madeline started at it like one would start at an object that may blow up.

The gilded invitation Philippe had handed to her had listed the day of the ball as that very one. All day she had been trying to find a way out of it – to no avail.

And now Philippe's promised wardrobe help had arrived.

Madeline gulped as Philippe turned the handle. This was it. Once that door opened she would officially be stuck.

Unless of course, whoever Philippe brought saw the truth and deemed her as un-ball-worthy as she always knew she was.

"Maddy!" Marie sprung through the door like a spring that had been pulled too tight and latched herself onto Madeline's legs, burying her small face into Madeline's apron. After a moment, Marie raised her head, a small pout on her face, "I don't get to go the ball."

Madeline stifled a laugh as Philippe pulled the small girl off her, and into his arms.

"It will be your turn soon," he soothed, "and then God help us, watch out."

Marie giggled as her brother tickled her.

"Now, is this the chit who thinks she isn't fit for a ball?"

Madeline jumped; the appearance of Marie had calmed her so that she had forgotten why she had been dreading the knock.

Standing in the door way was a woman, probably in her early thirties; she had a cheerful plump figure and a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes.

"Nancy," Philippe said to the woman, "this is Madeline; Madeline, this is our housekeeper, Nancy."

Despite her previous – and still existing – worries, Madeline took an instant liking to the woman in front of her.

"Well then chit lets have a look at you."

Madeline, shy yet encouraged by her kind tone, stepping forward and pirouetted as instructed.

"Well," she asked, nervously twirling a strain of hair, "Do you think I'll look okay?"

Nancy seemed to start at that question.

"Lord's mercy child!" she laughed merrily, "I don't know what you're worried about chit – you could go as you are now and be the bell of the ball."

Madeline blushed but was too overwhelmed by everything going on to respond.

Philippe mouthed, "I told you so," as Nancy shooed him out of the house claiming this was woman's work.

Then, with Marie trailing joyfully behind her, Nancy demanded that Madeline lead them up to her room to begin.

Nancy had several gowns that had belonged to one of Philippe's sisters – a Miss Claire.

"No," Nancy said reluctantly as Madeline twirled in the last of the dresses, a fluffy yellow thing, "that one's not quite right either."

The yellow jived beautifully with her black hair, but washed the rest of her pale skin out. The gown also hung loosely in places looking like what it was – a borrowed dressed, meant to fit someone else.

"It's useless," Madeline sighed, sinking onto her bed, "It's just what I tried to tell Philippe – I'm not meant for a ball."

Nancy rushed to her side, "Now, now chit, don't despair. We'll think of something."

"What? That was the last of the dresses."

For a short time Madeline had been letting hope fill her. Perhaps, she had thought, this could work. Now, however, now all of that was deflating faster than a punctured balloon.

"We could try them again, maybe the purple –" Nancy stopped, thoughtful for a moment, "Or, are you sure you have no gowns in the house, chit?"

Madeline nodded tearfully, "all my clothes are plain and—" A thought struck her. She remembered another time when she had planned on leaving the house and needed clothes, "My mother's clothes. They have been taken care of – there might be…"

"Well then lead the way chit."

In her mother's room she carefully opened the closet and started going through the articles hidden inside.

There were many dresses, all of them elegant and fine, but not meant for a ball. As each day and evening gown passed Madeline felt her disappointment settle.

This had been a foolish idea. What would her father have said if he saw her in one of her mother's gowns? That would be if it had even fitted, which Madeline doubted since her mother had been a grown woman, not a—

That's when she saw it.

Her hand hesitated over the material. It couldn't be—

There was no way that they could have found a dress so—

Perfect

Slowly, Madeline pulled the full, heavy gown out of the closet. She didn't even need to hold it up to herself to see if it would fit. She just knew it would.

Nancy's eyes lit up as she saw it. Marie 'oo'ed and crawled forward to look closer at it.

"We found your dress chit."

* * *

"Don't touch that." Nancy clapped at Madeline as her hand drifted towards her hair.

She was just stunned at what Nancy had done. She twisted her head this way and that trying to get a better look.

Her glossy black hair had been pulled, twisted and pinned until it was in a large complicated bun that swirled and curled with bits of hair everywhere. It looked like it should be chaos, messy but instead it made perfect, orderly sense. It was divine.

In the front, Nancy had left two ringlets of hair to curl gracefully along either side of her face.

"I hardly recognize myself," she murmured to a stunned reflection.

Her body was wrapped in a magnificent covering of red and white. The full skirt ballooned elegantly around her legs in a smooth confection of silky white. Her corseted bodice, white underneath, was covered by a sheer gauzy red material that became bunched up at the left side of her hip to fall gracefully along the skirt like a sash. The red material, embroidered with flowering vines, made up the small stylish sleeves that ended just past her shoulders.

"It's," she was struggling to come up with the proper words, "perfect."

"Not yet chit."  
Madeline turned to look questioningly at Nancy.

"Marie wanted to give you something."

The little girl, all excited smiles, ran up to the parcel of things Nancy had brought with her, and grabbed a small black box.

Madeline gasped as she opened it.

"It mine, but I's wants yous to wear it," Marie smiled up at her over the simple, sparkling tiara.

"Marie," Madeline gasped, "I can't—"

"Of course you can chit," Nancy said taking control of the situation, "Marie won't be able to wear it for years, and we know you'll take good care of it."

Not letting Madeline protest further Nancy took the tiara out of its box and placed it on Madeline's head.

"Now you're perfect, chit."

Nestled amongst Madeline's dark hair it sparkled brighter than before.

Marie threw her arms around Madeline's abundant skirts, "Sees I tolded you, you's a princess!"

Madeline's laughter was cut off by the knock on the door. Her heart froze. It was Philippe. It was time to go.

She took a step towards the door, but Nancy stopped her.

"Chit, you don't just go answering the door dressed like that," she gave her a stern look. "Marie and I will answer the door. You will make your grand entrance."

Nancy started to walk out, but stopped at the doorway, "And remember chit, you look beautiful."

And for once Madeline didn't feel the need to contradict her. For once she truly felt it.

* * *

"See," Philippe whispered into Madeline's ear as they danced around the ball room with other finely dressed couples, "A ball isn't that bad."

Madeline beamed at him in response and his heart thudded to a brief halt.

She was dazzling. Philippe could still remember the moment that she had walked into her foyer; Philippe was sure that his heart had stopped back then and still had started back up properly.

"I've told you how beautiful you are, right?"  
Madeline laughed freely, attracting a few bemused or wistful gazes form other around the room.

"About twenty times, yes," she smiled, "You're not so bad yourself."

Philippe nodded gracefully at this, but he knew even in his fine tailored tuxedo he didn't look anywhere near as good as she did.

The song ended and they walked to a calmer part of the room.

"I'm glad I came," she said looking brightly about the room, "I got to meet your family and friends."

Philippe spotted Sam dancing with some blonde haired beauty, and smiled. He had been as charming as always, and claimed to Philippe, in a rare moment he was without Madeline, that he was 'perfectly enchanted' by her. Even Claire, his hard to please sister, had called her charming.

Another dance ended. Philippe's eyes drifted towards the clock. It was almost midnight.

He felt his heart quicken. The ball would be over then, and he might have missed his chance. He would certainly lose his nerve.

He grabbed Madeline's hand, and nodded towards the door, "Come with me."

With only one unanswered question of what was going on, Madeline followed Philippe out into the hall and onto a small bench in a little alcove.

"Philippe, what's going on?" she asked suppressed laughter in her voice.

"You know I think you're the most amazingly wonderful, kind, perfect girl I've ever met, right?" Philippe's voice was low and urgent.

"Philippe," she laughed.

"Madeline," he said grabbing her hand, "You know I love you."

"Of course," she said something in his tone and actions making her serious.

"And you love me?" Philippe's voice cracked with vulnerability.

"With all my heart."

Philippe smiled then, one that lit up his whole face.

Madeline smiled too, "What's this all about? Are you afraid that now that I've left my house I'll find someone better?"  
Philippe sighed, trying to calm his nerves. His hand shook as he reached into a small pocket on the inside of his jacket and handed her a small slip of paper.

"What's this?" Madeline took it from his hand gingerly, "We haven't done practice sentence in ages."

They hadn't needed to. Madeline's reading had gotten on wonderfully.

Philippe struggled to keep his voice calm as he responded.

"Think of it as a final test. If you read it perfectly than you passed Philippe's school of reading—no matter what your answer is."

"My answer?"

"Just read it."

Madeline looked at him a long moment before turning to the paper.

"Will you mar—" she stopped a moment her eyes widening. Philippe know that she wasn't stumbling over the words; she was reacting to the message, "Will you marry me?"  
Unlike last time, when he had been too scared to talk in the silence that followed, this time, he was too scared to allow a silence. Word came out of his mouth like bile.

"I know it may seem a little sudden but my mother keeps claiming I'm of a marrying age, and I really couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have as a wife," he paused only a moment, "and it wouldn't have to be right away. We could wait until whenever you want. Until your father—" he stopped, not wanting to ruin the moment with words like death.

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a small ring box.

"So, Madeline De Rocha, will you marry me?"

**A/N: **Another chapter done, and thank you for re

* * *

ading it. Please, feel free to review, tell me what you liked/ didn't like, favourite part/least favourite, or any thing you think I need to improve on. I love to hear from you. Thank you again.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Madeline sat on her bed, ball dress still on, staring stunned at the ring on her hand.

She couldn't believe it; her brain was having trouble remember how exactly it had ended up there.

The ball had been wonderful, perfect – everything she had ever wanted an evening like that to be.

And Philippe… well Philippe was really all she ever wanted.

She had managed to forget that she was Madeline De Rocha, the motherless daughter turned maid of a helpless drunk. For a brief time she really did feel like a princess, living in a fairytale.

So she had said yes. Of course she had said yes – to spend the rest of her life with Philippe – she couldn't think of anything else she'd rather do. Her heart nearly burst with happiness at the thought of it.

But it was all just a fairytale.

Twelve o'clock had come and gone, and Madeline had turned back into a pumpkin.

The dress, the ring, all of it looked out of place in her shabby home. Madeline wasn't a princess – she would never be a princess.

She was Madeline De Rocha, a forgotten girl.

Except Philippe never forgot her. She smiled down at her ring, for it was hers; she had said yes.

She could forget all of her silly fears and marry him. She could spend the rest of her life as Mrs. Anderson, Lady Anderson when the present Lady Anderson passes on. She could go to balls, and host fine dinners. For all intensive purposes, she would be a princess, and she would be able to forget the life she was living now.

Madeline tried to picture Philippe with his fine clothes, and noble posture living – actually living not just visiting – this type of life. It was laughable. Philippe didn't know how to be poor anymore than she knew how to be rich.

She imagined herself amongst the other woman in Philippe's life, his mother and oldest sister, Claire. They both had had an air about them that oozed importance. They knew where they were on the social order – very high – and were completely comfortable with it.

Philippe didn't understand. There was more to being a count's wife than looking pretty. Men never truly understood a woman's world for they were too different. There were social codes and rules that she didn't know or understand – she would mess everything up.

Philippe didn't understand it, he couldn't see it, but if he married her she would be clueless, and his clueless wife would then chase everyone away, making his future job impossible.

They were kids now; it didn't matter, but one day he would have to take over for his father – he wasn't just the oldest son, he was the _only _son – and when that day comes, Madeline will be so ill-equipped for her roll in that, that he will eventually come to resent her.

She was sure of it.

Her heart twisted painfully. She didn't want to lose him, not now, not ever.

But she was so scared that if she didn't take the ring off, and willingly lose him as a husband now, she would lose him completely later.

Madeline let out a yell of frustration. She didn't know what to do.

And as she always did when she was lost, she went to see her mother.

It was hard to see the painting with just the moon light, but Madeline had seen it so many times it didn't matter. She knew what it looked like.

"What do I do Mama? You would know how to be a countess but me?" Madeline sighed, "I don't have the first clue. I'd ruin him."

Madeline stared at the painting helplessly. She knew that her question couldn't actually be answered by canvas and paint, but she so wanted it to.

"I need you Mama. I'm so lost."

_Follow your heart, my sweet._

Logically, Madeline knew that the voice that sprung to her head could only be her own, coming from somewhere in her subconscious, but she needed a mother right now. So she pretended that she didn't know that.

"But what if I don't know what my heart is saying? What if it's wrong?"  
_Your heart is never wrong, and when the way is right you will see it._

Madeline's shoulders sagged; why did her 'mother' have to be so cryptic? Why couldn't she give Madeline a simple yes or no?  
That was all she really wanted – needed.

Of course, deep down, she knew this wasn't about yes or no; in many ways, it wasn't even about Philippe.

This was about something much bigger.

Madeline shuffled and something rubbed against her arm. Carefully she picked it up, and with the aid of the moon light she saw that it was her book, the one that spoke of all the places in the world she had never got to see.

She opened it, and ran her hand across the pages, feeling what the words said, picturing the placed that it described, the adventures one could have there.

And idea struck her – a nugget of sorts. It wasn't a full out plan but it was a start.

She smiled at her painting, "Thank you."

Her father was passed out in his study when she found him.

Despite all the pain he had put her through, the marks on her ankle that she feared would never go way, she smiled fondly at him.

He was just as lost as she was. One moment he had had a perfect family – a beautiful wife, and a daughter who adored him – that he had loved very much, and the next that was shattered. His wife was gone, and never coming back, and he was left with a little girl, who – no matter how much he loved – not only reminded him too much of his wife, but he had no idea what to do with.

He had handled that the only way he had known how. Did she wish he could have been stronger for her?

Of course.

But did she hate him for it?

Never.

Because despite all that had happened, she was still the little girl who adored her father.

There was no way around it.

She knew what she was going to do.

Slowly, carefully, Madeline made her way across the room and gently put her arms around his unconscious form.

As she had known he would, he didn't wake up, but that was ok. It was probably better this way.

"I love you Papa," she gently kissed his cheek, "I always will."

She headed back to the door, but stopped before leaving, "I'm sorry."  
Then she walked out without looking back. It was time for her to take that little nugget of an idea and make it into a plan.

* * *

Philippe whistled as he left his house to head to Madeline's.

She had said yes! She was his fiancé – _fiancé_, Philippe kept repeating the word in his head, liking the way it sounded.

Madeline Anderson. He loved the way it sounded, even if repeating it over and over in his head along with fiancé made him a pansy.

He loved her, and that night, and every night he had to spend away from her, was the longest of his life. His only comfort was that one day he wouldn't have to do that.

She'd be his wife.

It was all too much. Philippe was so happy he wasn't sure he could handle it.

He hadn't told anybody yet. He hadn't told anyone that he was going to ask, because he was too scared of how she would respond. If she had said no, he simply could not have bared it to have to tell people that result. He hadn't wanted to jinx it.

Now he didn't want to tell anyone because it was too special. He didn't want to share it with anyone yet. He wanted a little bit of time to just be Madeline and himself.

He wanted to keep this feeling a little longer, just him.

He let himself into the manor as was his habit. There was no need to knock when neither father nor daughter cared.

"Hello! Madeline!"

Philippe's voice echoed off the empty hall. He paused.

That was odd.

Madeline was usually up by the time he showed up.

But they had gotten back late the night before.

She must have slept in.

Philippe crept up the stairs knocking on her door before opening it.

"Morning sleepyhead—"

The bedroom was empty. As was the attic, kitchen and sitting room.

An odd sort of panic was starting to build up in Philippe, and hold him in its grip. It was almost as if Madeline—

"She's not here."

Philippe jumped and then turned to find Mr. De Rocha standing behind him looking more alert than he could ever remember. Of course the man was hung-over, but as far as Philippe could tell he hadn't started to drink again that day.

"What do you mean she's not—?"

"She left this for you."

He handed Philippe an envelope with his name one it, written in Madeline's shaky scrawl. He took the letter out with shaking hands. His panic was growing.

_-Philippe _

_I'm sorry that I am telling you this way, but if I have to face you, I know I won't be able to do it. I can't marry you. You deserve someone sophisticated, knowledgeable, worldly – or at least someone who has left their house more than twice in almost twelve years._

_Please do not think this is because I do not love you. I love you more than anything, and I will always love you, but I think this will fit better on another girl's finger – no matter how much it breaks my heart to admit it. I'm not fit to be a wife, especially one that is going to become a countess one day. _

_Please don't try to find me; by the time you get this I will be long gone._

_As inadequate as it is, this is goodbye._

_You changed my life._

_I love you._

_Yours, Always_

_Madeline De Rocha_

"I feel I should apologize," De Rocha was speaking in a broken voice but Philippe barely heard him, "If I hadn't… if she had gotten... I'm just surprised she hadn't done this sooner."

Numbly Philippe tipped the envelope over and the engagement ring tumbled into his hand.

She was gone.

* * *

**A/N:** Well that was that - don't worry this is not the last chapter. What kind of person would I be to leave it like that? I am sorry that I took so long to update. I got a little busy last week. I will try to update again ASAP. And as always please feel free to review. I love to hear all that you think, the good and the bad. Its the only way I can improve.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Gone, she was gone.

Philippe wandered away from Madeline's house in a daze. No, it couldn't be true. She wouldn't just… couldn't just…

Her note was clutched tauntingly in his hand, scrunched into a ball, waiting for the moment he finally broke down to read it again.

The ring, _her _ring – for it was meant for no one else but her – burned a hole in his pocket.

It was funny how now that Madeline left her father, now that he had gotten what he had wanted for her in the first place, he wasn't happy.

He never thought that leaving her home would have meant leaving himself as well.

Madeline thought he didn't get it – he knew that was what she thought, why she left, but she was the one who didn't understand.

He didn't care about any of those things in her letter; he didn't care about money, class, and sophistication. He had never really cared about any of it before, and he certainly didn't care about any of it now.

Stopping suddenly, he unwrapped the note, and skimmed the now very wrinkled page.

'_You changed my life'_

_He _had changed _her _life? _She _had changed _his_. She had made him think, made him actually see the world around him.

No matter how much he didn't care about any of those things he had, before he had met Madeline Philippe had been a spoiled rich boy, wrapped up in his own world.

But all that had changed when Madeline had come along. She made him see, she made him think. There was a whole class of people he had never known, never thought about until he had met her.

Until she had changed him.

Suddenly, something important, strong, un-ignorable started to burn deep inside of him.

If she thought he wasn't going to try and find her than she underestimated the strength of his love.

There wasn't anywhere on this earth that she could hide from him. He would spend his whole life combing every corner for her.

But he was hoping he wouldn't have to.

He had a suspicion – a hope really – that the truth was she didn't want to hide from him. Not really.

* * *

"You asked her to marry you?" Sam looked at Philippe incredulously as he passed the note to Nancy, "You didn't think that was a bit… rash?"

"Oh poppet," Nancy cooed before Philippe could answer his friend.

They were back at Madeline's house. Philippe had found a home willing to let him use their telephone to call in the Calvary so to speak.

He was perfectly willing to search the whole town on his own, but he was worried that if he did it would be too late.

If it wasn't already.

Madeline may have claimed she would be long gone by the time he found the note, but he was willing to put that to the test. He wasn't going to take her word for it.

He had to go find her, because he wasn't about to spend the rest of his life wondering where she went, and what could have happened if she hadn't.

"No, I did not," Philippe replied, "It had seemed like a perfect plan until…"

For once, Sam's rational side fell back, and he gave Philippe a sympathetic smile, "I'm sorry, mate."

"But Poppet, what do you want us to do?"

Philippe sighed and ran a hand along the wall.

"I can't… I can't just let her go like this. I need-I have to…" he paused, "If she is still in the city I have to find her, even if it's only for a few moments I need…"

Philippe didn't know what he needed. His heart just told him that this wasn't over. There was still… something.

He had to find her.

"But, Phil, what do you want _us_ to do?" Sam looked conflicted. He wanted to help his friend, but he wasn't sure what he was being asked to do.

"Search. You both know what she looks like. Search every place you can think of, anywhere that she might be. Go door to door if you have to asking to see every female in the house. I don't care, but if you think that even for a moment it might be Madeline, do not let it go, check. Help me find her. I have to find her."

They were all quiet. Philippe was looking at each of them desperately. He needed this more than they could understand.

He needed her.

* * *

"I'm sorry Poppet."

"Phil, we checked everywhere," Sam said, his tone soft, sympathetic, "she's not here anymore. She could be anywhere by now."

Philippe's heart sunk with a dull, painful flop. Any hope he had, had was slowly slipping away.

Nancy and Sam had done what he had asked. Together the three of them covered every inch of the city.  
Although he hated to admit it, Sam looked to be right.

Madeline was gone.

She had kept her promise, and was gone by the time he got the letter.

Or at least by the time he started searching.

"Then I'll leave too."  
Sam's head snapped up, "But she could be anywhere! What are you going to do? Search every speck of earth looking for her?"

"If I have to."

"That could take your whole life! You'll waste it!"

Philippe blinked; words he had once said to Madeline filled his head, "No life spent on her is wasted."

It was Sam's turn to blink. He didn't understand it. He might never understand it – he was just not like Philippe, his brain didn't work the same—but at that moment he finally understood, how much he didn't understand.

"I'll miss you," he finally said.

Philippe smiled sadly, "I'll write."

They hugged quickly and Philippe turned to Nancy.

"Do what you have to Poppet; I'll take care of everything here."

Philippe smiled once more, "Thank you for everything, both of you."

"Where will you go?" Sam called as his friend made to leave the room.

Philippe gave him a small smile, "I have an idea."

* * *

Madeline, her heart sore, and eyes red, waited nervously at the dock, her mother's red traveling cloak on and suitcase firmly in hand.

She had meant to be gone by now, but the boat hadn't been scheduled to leave until late. So she spent the day waiting terrified that Philippe would show up.

And hoping he would at the same time.

She didn't know what she would do if he found her. If she was to see his face, she knew that she wouldn't be able to do it. She wouldn't be able to leave.

But she had to. It was better for him this way. It didn't matter what she wanted. It was about what was best for Philippe – and sadly she wasn't it.

So it was with a heavy and conflicting heart that she began to board the boat.

_It's a good think he hasn't shown up, _she told herself as she shuffled along the boarding plank, _It's better this way; you don't want –_

"Where do you think you're going without me?"

Madeline froze. No it couldn't be. It was just her imagination. It was just –

"Madeline, please."

She'd know that voice anywhere.

"Philippe."

There he was standing just at the edge of the dock looking as stunned as Madeline felt.

Before she could get another thought out, he had dashed over and thrown his arms around her.

"Do you dare do that again – I thought I'd never see you again. God, Madeline," he held her tighter.

Madeline despite never wanting to leave the safety of his arms fidgeted until he had let her go.

"Philippe – we can't," she managed to say past her frantically beating heart. Apparently no one told it, that it would have been better for Philippe to have not shown up.

"Madeline—"

"Philippe, no."

"Madeline," this time his voice was firm, demanding attention. Madeline stopped trying to protest, "just answer me this one question: Do you want to marry me?"

Madeline stopped, frozen. How could she answer that question? It wasn't nearly as simple as Philipp was trying to make it out to be. It wasn't just about what she wanted. There was so much more.

"Yes I do, but-"

"No, there is no buts," Philippe stopped her before she could continue, "Do you, Madeline De Rocha, want to marry me, Philippe Anderson? Not my title, not your father, nothing else. It is a simple question – you and me, don't you want that?"

Madeline's heart swelled. When he said it, it was all so simple. It was like back at the ball. With Philippe it really was just what he said – her and him.

She found her head nodding of its own accord, "More than anything."

Philippe's face broke out into a smile then, a sun is always shinning, small child at Christmas sort of smile.

Then he pulled something out of his pocket.

"This I believe," he said slipping it on to her hand, "is yours; despite what you said, it just wouldn't fit onto anybody's hand but yours."

Madeline stared at her left hand in a daze, once more unsure how the ring had gotten there.

"But Philippe—"

"No, I already told you, no more buts. You better listen to me right now because I'm only going to be telling you this once," Philippe paused a moment to take both her hands into his own, "I love _you _Madeline – not some sophisticated bumpkin who happened to be raised in the right family. I don't give a hang about those other girls, or my father's foolish title. Let my cousin Henry have it if that will make you happy. And if you want to leave right now, and see the world, then let's go. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have the adventure with. I'm telling you now De Rocha, you're not getting rid of me."

Madeline blinked at him, "but-but-"

There were no more buts left. Philippe had laid everything out there.

He wanted…

For the first time she noticed the suitcase by his feet.

"You know I'd be here."

Philippe followed her gaze, "Yes, and no – I had hoped maybe… but it you weren't I was going to follow you anyways. I was going to go where ever I had to, to get you back."

Madeline, stunned once more, blinked her wide blue eyes at him again.

"You were going to follow me?"

"To the ends of the earth if I had to."

Madeline stared at him, a warm fuzzy feeling that had begun in her chest was starting to grow and spread through out her body.

She couldn't believe it, and yet, there it was.

Philippe – she didn't know how she could have doubted him, doubted herself.

She knew the way now.

"Last call," a voice boomed from the ship behind them, "All's aboard that's coming aboard."

Philippe stepped up the plank and held his hand out to her, "You coming?"

The way was Philippe.

Without hesitation she put her hand in his.

It always had been.

It always would be.

* * *

**A/N:** So that was that chapter. I hope the mended all the broken hearts over the last chapters endings. Please as always review. I love to hear what you think. Its how I grow better at writting. Anything you want to say - perferably about the story, go ahead and say it :)


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

In a modest home – on a bright snakeless island – on the wall, about an equally modest, but neat, hearth there was a painting.

Three painting to be exact.

To the left was an old portrait, the paint dry and cracked, but the family it displayed still fine and proud. It was a family of three – a dark proud father, a fair beautiful mother, and their pride and joy of a daughter – frozen in a time before pain and suffering could touch them, frozen before they could be shattered and forgotten.

To the right was a portrait of a beautiful young woman, fifteen, on the cusp of adulthood. With her silky brown hair, pinned and curled elegantly, and bright red lips that glowed against her milky white skin, she was every bit the irresistible charmer her brother had once predicted she would be. In her eyes, however, there was still a mischievous spark that reminded you of the untamable little girl she had once been.

In the centre, though, directly about the hearth that was always crackling merrily with a fire was the jewel.

This too was a family portrait, much newer, and brighter than the one to its left. The family was much more modest this time, but just as happy.

The man, the father, had his deep chestnut hair pulled back form his face, which was smiling lovingly at his small family. From his posture one could tell that he was once from money, but he wasn't using it now. He was dressed as a simple business man. Not poor by any means, but not rich either.

Beside him, his wife, slight and slender, practically glowed. Her stomach, covered by a simple yet still elegant dress, was great with child. Her dark black hair was pulled unassumingly from her face, and although she had known great sadness in her life, her deep blue eyes – like twin pieces of a cloudless blue sky – were as bright and innocent as they had been when she was a small child in her mothers arms, in the portrait next to her.

In her own arms, she held her child, a little boy, just barely over the age of one who had his mother's eyes and his father's hair. He smiled as only a little child can do. Just the opposite of her brother was the little girl, who clung shyly to her father's leg. She couldn't have been more than five.

They were a happy family, a content family. They enjoyed what life had offered them, without taking it for granted. They were willing to take the hardships along with the blessings, for they knew that was the only way it worked.

For that reason alone, that painting – as well as all the others – lived to stay on the wall, to be joined by other paintings as the family grew and changed, and watched as the people it represented, the family it watched over, lived happily ever after.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, folks, that is the end of my story. I would like to thank all of you who have continued reading right to this point, and stuck with me even when I left it un-updated for months. It really does mean a lot of me. I really do hope you enjoyed it, and since it is your last chance to do so I would love it if you reviewed! Tell me what you think of this chapter, the whole story. Its always the same, I love to hear what you liked and didn't like. Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read this, and who knows maybe one day I'll write another story you may be interested in.


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